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LIBRARY OF SELECT NOVELS, 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 


Ils ont p§ch§, mais ie ciel est uii don : 

Ils ont souffert, c’est une autre innocence ; 

Ils ont aim§, c’est le sceau du pardon. 

A. DE La.majrtine 


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Published by Harper ^ Brothers, Franklin Square, New York 








CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 

't. 


7 


//^ 


0hL 






TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH O^ 




THE COUNTESS D’ORSAY. 




(^kUofcoSS)^ 

‘^^WASHlUSl^ 


Ha ont p6ch6, maia le del eat un don; 

Ha ont soufFert, c’eat une autre innocence; 

Ha ont aim^, c’oat le sceau du pardon. 

A. DE Lauartine. 




NEW YOEK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

'3 2 9 AND 331 PEARL STREET, 

FRAHELIN SQUARE. 

1853 . 

H * 


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PEEF ACE. 


In placing this unpretending volume before the world, I may be permitted to 
state, in all sincerity and without the slightest affectation, that I have not indulged 
the ridiculous vanity of supposing that I have written a literary work, in the true 
acceptation of the term, nor even one of those stirring novels or romances which 
fascinate the reader, and enchain his attention from the beginning to the end ; and 
well do I also know that just and numerous criticisms may be launched against me 
for want of experience and for defect of style. 

This question, then, naturally arises: “If your judgment be so severe upon 
your own work, why do you publish it at all 1” To which I reply that, being left 
alone in the wide world at twenty years of age, without the blessings of a family, 
and without any direct objects to which my affections might be legitimately 
attached, I soon acquired the habits of contemplation and remark ; and, as an 
inevitable consequence, that of writing. Silent and reserved, it was a consolation 
to me to confide my inmost thoughts to the guardianship of paper, instead of com- 
mmiicating them to those every-day acquaintances, miscalled friends ; who too 
frequently wantonly betray that confidence which has been intrusted to them. 

It is extremely probable that I have missed the goal I sought to win : perhaps it 
may be thought that, in striving to brand with indignation and contempt that 
specious, heartless hypocrisy that robes itself with the mantle of charity and virtue, 
and frequently obtains the homage of a world prone to judge by outward appear- 
ances, I have too much idealized the fall of the beautiful young girl, steeped to the 
lips in indigence, suffering under the pernicious maxims of a vicious education, an 
outcast from society, degraded and despised. But are we not told that all-pitying 
Heaven — who reads the heart, and mercifully grants its pardon to the truly peni- 
tent — listened to the prayers of the sinful woman from the abyss of her misery, 
and vouchsafed to receive her in its breast ; and how, therefore, could I do less for 
the poor heroine of my humble tale 1 

In the character of Fernand d’Arville I have endeavored to portray the restless 
sentimentality of the young men of the day, ardently seeking the delights of heed- 
less pleasure, and leaving true happiness behind them ; capricious and ungrateful, 
crouching beneath the temporary passion that consumes them, and imperiously 
domineering over that they have inspired ; alternately ruthless tyrants and most 
abject slaves, open to the inculpation of innumerable faults, and yet without any 
sympathy for suffering, leniency to errors, or compassion for remorse. 

Moreover, soaring above all these stains, these plague-spots of the age, I have 
drawn “ woman ” as 'the Almighty has created her — an angel of mercy and of 
peace, turning away, by her pure and holy prayers, the sword Divine vengeance 
had suspended above the head of guilt, and offering to the down-trodden soul, 
bruised and battered by the storms of life, a quiet haven of respite and of peace. 

The idea was not deficient in a certain grandeur of conception : it will be for 
my readers to determine whether I have succeeded in any way in carrying it into 
effect. 


THE COUNTESS D’ORSAY. 



CLOUDED HAPPINESS 


CHAPTER I. 

In the midst of the vast and fertile plains 
of Franche-Oomte, and near the road which 
leads from Port-sur-Saone to Vesoul, the 
eye of the traveller cannot avoid lighting 
npon a comfortable, commodious dwelling, 
modestly called by one of its former pro- 
prietors Les Gharmettes^ but dignified with 
the appellation of a chateau by the humble 
inhabitants of the neighboring cottages and 
the honest tillers of the soil. 

The Oh&,teau des Charmettes, in truth, 
was sadly wanting in architectural beauty ; 
nor had taste and art lavished their decora- 
tions on the structure, which was simply 
composed of brick, stained and variously 
shaded by the skyey influences of many 
years, whilst the Venetian blinds, of a bright, 
glaring green, contrasted violently with the 
duU, dark-red, and embrowned orange of the 
outer walls. 

A long and broad grass pathway — straight 
as a dart — bordered with dwarf acacias and 
walls supporting trellissed vines, led from 
the broad stone steps of the terrace to the 
gate which opened upon the road, where the 
dwellers in the demesne might lounge, and 
complacently imbibe the dust— a privilege 
highly appreciated in France — raised by the 
carts and carriages which never ceased to 
pass along that great medium of communi- 
cation. Behind the house was a vegetable 
garden of tolerable extent ; whilst a cherry 
orchard and a few acres of arable and pas- 
ture land completed the territorial appen- 
dages of the Oh&.teau des Charmettes, which, 
at the period of this tale, belonged to Dr. 
Armand Saulnier, one of the magnates of 
the country-side. 

But, if the external aspect of the mansion 
violated the rules of symmetry and color, 
these defects were not compensated for by 
the artistic arrangements of the interior, 
which abounded in all those provincial 
habits which are to be found in all nations 
and in every class. On the ground-floor, a 
large, well-lighted saloon presented the stiff, 
chilly, freezing aspect of the “ best room,” 
only to be looked at, and never to be used ; 
the curtains and the seats of the sofa and 
chairs — of crimson damask — were cased in 
covers of brown Holland, and only beheld 


the sun on days of the greatest possible im- 
portance ; the drawings and paintings on 
the walls were concealed beneath green 
baize ; the mirrors, candelabras, and china 
on the mantel-piece were enveloped with 
green gauze ; and one glance at the bright 
fire-place showed that the element of the fire 
was unknown in that inhospitable retreat. 

Next to this hall of state receptions was 
the Doctor’s sanctum, in which he saw pa- 
tients and gave advice from twelve o’clock 
till two; on the other side was a small 
apartment, honored with the denomination 
of “ the Boudoir,” and specially apportioned 
to the use of Madame Saulnier, her daugh- 
ter, and her sister-in-law; and further on 
was a bare dining-room, so pierced with 
doors and windows that it almost seemed a 
temple dedicated to the winds. 

Of course the bed-chambers and dressing- 
rooms were situated in the upper stories of 
the house ; that of the Doctor’s wife was 
spacious, but furnished with conventual 
simplicity, no carpet, no bed-curtains, no- 
thing, in fact, but what was absolutely ne- 
cessary. One high-backed arm-chair only 
was ranged against the bare, whitewashed 
walls ; but there was also a low Prie-Diev, 
beneath an exquisitely sculptured figure of 
the Saviour, a richly carved ebony crucifix, 
a porcelain receptacle for holy water, and a 
magnificent painting, by Murillo, of the 
Mater Dolorosa^ whilst a Bible and several 
other pious and devotional books were 
placed on hanging shelves, above two iron 
bedsteads, in a deep alcove at one end of the 
room. 

One of these ascetic couches formed the 
nightly resting-place of Consuelo, Madame 
Saulnier’s daughter, a frail, delicate child, 
whose health demanded the most affection- 
ate attendance and solicitous precautions ; 
but, whether it arose from the austerity of 
practice and of thought that had become a 
second nature to the Doctor’s wife, that her 
coldness was the result of bodily organiza- 
tion, — or, from some unknown cause, the 
relations between the mother and the daugh- 
ter were restricted to those of common 
daily existence, and no one bad seen Inez 
ever kiss her child. 

It is true that, if some acute observers 
had chanced to descry a slight touch of ma- 


6 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


ternal feeling in the grave countenance and 
composed stiff attitude of Inez, he also 
could not have failed to remark that one 
look from the Doctor sufficed to recall her 
to her system of habitual reserve. But 
these trifling demonstrations of affection 
were “few and far between,” and when 
they did take place, the Doctor’s sombre 
countenance assumed a deeper gloom ; and 
although he was too much master of him- 
self to give way to a burst of furious rage, 
it was evident, from the contraction of his 
heavy eyebrows and the convulsive twitch- 
ing of his lips, that he was the victim of a- 
fearful, concentrated, inward strife. 

And yet the Doctor, who was conven- 
tionally benevolent, and of polished, gentle- 
manly manners, did not treat the child with 
any outward severity, — he attended to and 
watched over her scrupulously in all those 
indispositions incident to youth, — he gave 
her trifling presents on her birth-days and on 
other fetes, — but all his paternal demonstra- 
tions were circumscribed within the narrow 
circle of his duty : caresses and reproaches 
were alike unknown, and he was perfectly 
indifferent to either her childish happiness 
or grief. 

Now the good neighbors were sorely puz- 
zled how to account for this mysterious, 
silent drama in M. Saulnier’s establishment ; 
but, as the greatest order and decorum — 
the culminating point of provincial mo- 
rality — reigned in the Doctor’s household, 
they could not openly accuse him or his 
wife of any flagrant delicts, and therefore, 
in order to procure themselves the pleasure 
of breaking the mother on the wheel, the 
charitable creatures affected to pity the 
dolorous condition of the child. 

The fact was, Madame Saulnier was not 
liked in the spot where Providence had cast 
her lot ; too good-liearted to descend to the 
level of trivial gossip and paltry village 
feuds, she had shut herself up in the inac- 
cessible heights of a cultivated mind, and 
had removed herself entirely, — perhaps ra- 
ther too scornfully, — from the common 
herd by whom she was surrounded. Be- 
sides, Madame Saulnier siiftered under that 
which was a misfortune, if not a fault, in 
the daughter of a banker, — for her grand- 
father, on the maternal side, was the Duke 
of Alcantara, a grandee of the first class in 
Spain. Her father, M. Darville, had amassed 
a considerable fortune by successful specu- 
lations in Paris, where he had resided many 
years ; on retiring from business he pur- 
chased the title of a Baron, and adroitly 
slip[)ed an apostrophe between the two first 
letters of his name, changing the simple 
plebeian Darville into the aristocratic D’Ar- 
ville, and thus assuming to be descended 
from the old nobility, the aristocratic high- 
blood of the land. 

The petty vanity of that provincial lo- 


cality being overclouded and absorbed by 
the magnificent pretensions and vaulting 
ambition of the banker, his subsequent ruin, 
in consequence of some rash speculations, 
was a fertile theme for congratulation to 
his neighbors, who pursued him with their 
calumnies until death ; and even when he 
was in the tomb, some of them did not 
hesitate to aver that he perished by his own 
hand in his despair. Soon after his decease, 
Inez was rescued from a somewhat em- 
barrassing position by her union with the 
Doctor, and then the worthy man was 
deemed to have been entrapped into a sen- 
timental marriage with the now portionless 
but cunning girl. 

As the banker’s family resided constantly 
in Paris in their days of opulence, and paid 
occasional flying visits to Yesoul, the cir- 
cumstances attendant upon the return of 
Madame d’Arville and her daughter were 
recalled with the minutest accuracy ; the 
neighbors shook their heads, and spoke sig- 
nificantly of the deep-laid scheme of the 
two ladies to draw the Doctor to them, un- 
der the pretext of consulting him in some 
imaginary illness of the daughter, and of the 
sudden, inexplicable, gloomy change in Saul- 
nier’s habits after his unfortunate alliance. 

“ Is it not evident ?” quoth Madame Le- 
blond, one of the masculine-minded females 
of the district ; “ is it not clear that Inez 
d’Arville despised her husband, and only 
consented, as a last resource, to marry a 
man she disliked so much that she even 
hates the poor, dear infant, the result of 
their unhappy union ? And is it not equally 
true, that Doctor Saulnier dares not speak 
a kind word to his child, through this hor- 
rible aversion of her unnatural mother ?” 

Such being the common conversation in 
Vesoul, it was impossible that portions of 
the scandal should not penetrate at times 
into the depths of Madame Saulnier’s re- 
treat ; they would have passed, as the idle 
winds, harmlessly by a woman more happy, 
or, it may be, more innocent than Inez ; but 
though in secret she felt acutely from the 
observations and insinuations of her enemies, 
she deigned not a reply ; her countenance 
betrayed no trace of suffering within, and 
her own thoughts sustained her in her so- 
cial martyrdom. Frequently she would pass 
whole nights by the infant’s bed, gazing on 
her as she lay ; but, if by chance Consuelo 
should awake, and extend her little arms 
towards her mother, Inez would walk away 
with assumed indifference, and even repress 
the innocent caresses of her child. 

Madame Saulnier’s chamber was only 
separated by a slight partition from her 
husband’s, but the door of communication 
between them had been hermetically closed 
since the first hour of their marriage. Whilst 
Inez remained upon her knees before the 
crucifix, buried in the one racking thought 


CLOUDED HAPPIOTSS. 


7 


that formed the poison of her life, or perhaps 
leaned over and dropped her scalding tears 
upon the tender bud that concentrated all 
her earthly love, Doctor Saulnier would tra- 
verse his apartment with hasty steps, or 
silently contemplate the slender barrier be- 
tween himself and his wife which he had 
caused to be erected, listening with eager 
ear to the slightest sounds that rose in the 
stillness of night from that abode of misery 
and despair. 

Occasionally, when a heavy sigh or a 
heart-rending sob would reach the ears of 
Armand Saulnier, he would clench his 
hands with all the energy of rage — the sin- 
ews would stand out like whip-cord from 
every excited limb — the conflicting passions 
that engrossed his soul would set every 
muscle quivering like an aspen leaf — and he 
would have given the wealth of India and 
Cathay to have been able to surmount the 
barrier that divided him from her he shun- 
ned, and yet so fondly loved. He would 
willingly have lavished his heart’s best 
blood to have pressed against his breast the 
woman who expiated the crime of another 
with such undaunted courage; he would 
have laid down the inexorable severity of a 
stern, upright judge, to bend the knee and 
bow the head before the being whose tears 
he caused unceasingly to flow; and he 
would have purchased with his life the pow- 
er of spurning beneath his feet that despot 
which is styled “man’s dignity,” and of 
tasting the ineffable delights of forgiving 
her whose honor he had saved, — ^but anon, 
pride and mistrust would check the generous 
impulse of his heart, and the deep grief of 
Inez remained unassuaged. 

A few years before the commencement of 
this tale. Doctor Saulnier was young and 
fresh of heart, rich in all those mental illu- 
sions which, once destroyed, can never 
spring again ; passionate in feeling, but pure 
as snow in thought ; placing the ideal wo- 
man of his love above the creatures of this 
sublunary world, and worshipping his idol 
with all the fervency of an enthusiastic 
mind. Fate owed him a mate of similar 
qualities to himself, and ruthlessly hurled 
him against Inez. 

An angel — sooth to say — fallen from her 
celestial glory, but still beaming bright with 
marvellous and unrivalled beauty, Mademoi- 
selle d’Arville came to conceal, in the retire- 
ment of Yesoul, the sufferings that she dared 
not name. Crushed beneath the weight of 
a burthen that she feared to disclose even 
to her mother’s ears, Inez fled from the 
prying, malicious observation of the Pa- 
risian saloons, with the hope of dying in ob- 
scurity ; for the inexperienced girl had 
fallen the victim to a fashionable libertine, 
who had basely deserted her at the moment 
when she required all his tenderness and care. 

Upon the arrival of Madame d’Arville 


and her unhappy daughter at their country 
residence, the elder lady, naturally anxious 
about Inez’s incomprehensible indisposition, 
sent for Doctor Saulnier, who enjoyed a 
high reputation in that district for skill and 
medical attainments, and the consequence 
was, that after paying a few professional 
visits to his lovely patient, the young phy- 
sician became dazzled with her lustrous 
beauty, elegance, and grace, and his admir- 
ation rapidly ripened into love. Neverthe- 
less, when in the calm intervals of that 
volcanic passion that burned within his 
breast, Saulnier gave his attention to her 
complaint, he recoiled in horror before an 
enigma he had not the hardihood to solve. 
Despite his incredulity, symptoms that could 
not be mistaken forced themselves upon his 
notice, and a frightful certainty burst in 
upon him : yet he closed his eyes obstinately 
against his conviction of the dreadful truth, 
for he preferred doubting science itself, to 
doubting the immaculate purity of the beau- 
teous idol of his first love. 

Inez had no intention of deceiving him, 
and felt that the day must soon arrive when 
by a frank confession of her state, she must 
lose a lover, and might preserve a real 
friend, but still she had not the courage to 
deprive herself of the consolations of Saul- 
nier’s attentions. The homage which had 
been so prodigally bestowed upon her in 
Paris was excited only by her beauty ; and 
the interminable soft murmurs of admiration 
with which she had been surrounded, grat- 
ified only the vanity inseparable from the 
female heart; but, to find herself so re- 
spectfully, so fondly, so religiously adored, 
was a triumph far above the wildest dreams 
she had indulged in in the zenith of her 
fame, and forrqed a charm which, in her 
cruel situation, she could not cast away. 
Careless of the future, she allowed the 
barque of her new existence to float along 
the tranquil stream, through verdant, fertile 
plains, and perfumed, flowery meads. She 
became more and more accustomed to the 
visits paid her by Armand, which broke 
the daily dulness of her life ; she admired, 
without well comprehending, those power- 
ful, energetic, but rude faculties, which con- 
tinued intercourse was unveiling to her 
eyes, so different to those she had hitherto 
met in the jewelled, scented flutterers of Pa- 
ris, — until the notice she bestowed upon the 
Doctor raised the flood of his deep love to 
sucli a height, that it impetuously burst 
the banks of cold reserve, and brought him 
an ardent, eloquent suppliant at her feet. 

“No, Armand I” she said, in a voice bro- 
ken by her sobs, “ I cannot, must not, be 
your wife. I am not that pure thing you 
think me ; a villain has abused my confi- 
dence and love, and — ” she covered her 
face with her hands — “ shortly I must be- 
come a mother !” 


8 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


Saulnier heard the last sentence of this 
painful declaration with an agony that words 
cannot depict. It seemed as if his own sus- 
picions — founded on medical deductions — 
had not prepared him for the announcement 
of the truth, and he fell pale and senseless 
in a chair. Soon, however, he recovered 
from the first stunning consequences of the 
shock, threw himself again at Inez’s feet, and 
bathed her cold hands with his hot tears, 
as he said : 

“ I knew it — I could not help but know 
it — although I would not receive the evi- 
dence of my own senses. But you are not 
guilty. Oh ! no, no, no ! A momentary 
fault must be repaired, — your character must 
be unblemished, — your reputation must re- 
main intact, — my life shall be devoted to 
those ends ; though fallen as you are through 
baseness and deceit, my heart acknowledges 
the purity of yours, and henceforward let 
me be your stay and your support. But 
now I feel that my audacity was unparal- 
leled in even lifting up my eyes to yours ; 
that which was then a mere request, prof- 
fered in all humility, becomes a fervent, an 
impassioned prayer, for I feel that I can 
save you. Be calm, dear Inez, be happy,” 
he added, with that chivalrous devotion, 
that abnegation of all self, which true love 
only can inspire ; “ be happy, for you shall 
remain before the world as pure, as holy as 
you are to me!” 

Inez opposed but a slight resistance to the 
arguments of her devoted lover. In fact, he 
pleaded his cause with an energy that would 
not be repulsed, for he felt convinced she 
had been cruelly deceived, and that the re- 
turn of happiness would bring her back for- 
ever to those paths of virtue from which she 
had been treacherously seduced. Inez suf- 
fered herself to be persuaded, and before 
that interview was closed it was arranged 
that Mademoiselle d’Arville should quarter 
the ancient blazon of her family with the 
modest arms of Saulnier. 

The doctor had sacrificed himself in all 
probity of intention and good faith ; but who 
can sound the depths of the mysterious 
human breast ? "When once the maddening 
excitement that prompted the generous de- 
votion had passed off and reason had re- 
gained her empire, he half regretted the act 
he had committed ; the excess of his ardent 
love awakened shadowy suspicions in his 
mind, and night and day the spectre of the 
past stalked before him in all its terrible 
array. In a word, the Doctor was a con- 
itinual victim to that morbid passion which 
<^easts a gloom on everything around ; he 
.ootuld not look, without an involuntary 
-^tedder, upon the lovely infant who bore 
iliis name and yet was not his own ; he re- 
iflected bitterly that some casual event might 
reveal the truth of his position, and how the 
envious world would mock, and grin, and 


point with odious raillery at the fatherless 
babe and the despicable husband of a dis- 
honored wife ; and then came the damning 
thought that he did not, could not, possess 
the affection of his wife, — that her marriage 
with him was one of sheer convenience, to 
conceal her shame, — that her overwhelming 
love for her destroyer could alone excuse 
her fall. She was to him the exterminating 
angel, who had placed the drop of leprous 
distilment in the honey-cup of his existence, 
and she could not without shame belong to 
him, when her whole heart remained with 
her first-loved. 

This being the state of things ii) Doctor 
Saulnier’s establishment, it must reasonably 
be supposed that Inez dragged on a weary, 
miserable life. A woman in every sense of 
the term, of a tender, delicate organization, 
affection was as necessary to her as light 
and heat are to the seeds and fiowers of the 
earth. She could have felt for her husband 
an honest, warm -esteem, if not a feeling of 
deep love ; but the fanatical* idealism of 
Saulnier repulsed her, and the feeble woman 
flew for consolation to the asceticisms of the 
Roman Catholic religion. 


CHAPTER H. 

“Cue Fathers! — Where are they?” was 
the exclamation of a prophet, a great man 
in Israel, and after many hundred ages the 
words have descended to us. “ Our Fathers ! 
— Where are they ?” Dead ! Buried in the 
recesses of the tombs, whose “ storied urns 
record who sleep below,” or placed more 
modestly beneath the enamelled sward. 
Their joys and griefs, their tears and sighs, 
their triumphs and defeats, their woes and 
smiles — things of a day — are alike forgotten 
in the illimitable abyss, the vast gulf of eter- 
nity ! 

But let us leave to others the task of 
moralizing upon the effects of time, and the 
uses of adversity, and proceed to introduce 
another character upon the scene — namely. 
Mademoiselle Bettine Saulnier, the Doctor’s 
sister, a lady styled by the family and the 
inhabitants of the neighborhood “ The Guar- 
dian Angel!” of the Chateau des Char- 
mettes. However, before making a further 
acquaintance with this exemplary woman, 
it will be necessary to say a few words 
about her origin. 

At eighteen years of age Marie Destouches 
was universally acknowledged to be the 
sweetest, prettiest girl in Dijon. She was 
descended from a respectable family, of the 
reformed religion, who suffered so severely 
by the revocation of the Edict of Nantes 
that, on their return from exile, they found 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


9 


their property had long been confiscated, 
and passed into other hands ; a circumstance 
which, notwithstanding Marie’s loveliness, 
was held to be very detrimental to her 
settling advantageously in life. 

In the school at which she had been edu- 
cated she had formed one of those youthful 
intimacies, which survive alike time, dis- 
tance, calumny, and distress, with Pauline 
Duval, whose cherished desire was to see 
her brother Bernard espouse her dearest 
friend. The young man was soon fascinated 
by the charms and amiable qualities of 
Marie Destouches, whose Protestant faith 
and want of fortune presented in his eyes — 
then having seen some four-and-twenty 
summers — no obstacle to their union ; but, 
unfortunately. Monsieur and Madame Duval, 
the father and mother of Bernard and 
Pauline, entertained far different views for 
their son’s future course in life. 

These parents, by dint of persevering 
industry and strict economy, sometimes 
amounting to privation, had amassed a for- 
tune in humble trade ; and held “ Nature’s 
own red and white ” to be a very secondary 
consideration, as compared with the world’s 
gear; consequently, despising the pretty 
but pennyless Marie Destouches, they set 
their hearts upon having for their daughter- 
in-law, Mademoiselle Honorine Ferri^re, the 
only child of a wealthy tradesman, — a young 
lady, whose figure diverged somewhat from 
the perpendicular, whose hair was of a fiery 
red, and who, moreover, enjoyed consider- 
able obliquity of vision. “ However,” ob- 
served Madame Duval — a good Catholic, 
who presided over all the charities of the 
parish, and distributed the holy bread im- 
partially — “ she who possesses ready money, 
mortgages, and funds, was well worth any 
Marie Destouches that ever lived.” Beauty 
passed, but land remained. 

Now, Bernard Duval did not strictly co- 
incide with the parental aphorisms ; so, in 
order to cure him of his romantic passion, 
he was sent to Paris, there to cultivate an 
object of honorable ambition, which — ac- 
cording to the definition of his father — 
meant cupidity in its fullest sense; and, un- 
fortunately for Marie’s peace, the natural 
tendency of Bernard’s character soon over- 
came his transient caprice. He forgot his 
love in the intricacies of trade, and seriously 
set about acquiring a fortune, in pursuance 
of the maxims which had been so unceas- 
ingly instilled into his mind at home. 

When young Duval returned to Dijon, for 
the first time after a three years’ absence in 
the capital, he had already realized a por- 
tion of his hopes — he had become a junior 
partner in a well-established firm ; avarice 
held undivided possession of his narrow 
soul, and he looked upon his former love for 
Marie as little less than madness. He won- 
dered how he could have ever hesitated to 


prefer the substantial, golden charms of Ho- 
norine ; he resolved not to lose a moment 
in making them his own, and accordingly 
he wrote a brief, chilling note to Marie, pro- 
fessing the most profound esteem for her 
domestic virtues, and alleging that the ne- 
cessity of enlarging his commerce compelled 
him to decline pressing his former suit, and 
to take unto himself a wealthy bride. 

^ The heartless conduct of the young miser 
pierced poor Marie to the soul; however, 
she flew for consolation to her constant 
friend Pauline, now become the wife of M. 
Francois Saulnier, the father of the Doctor, 
and proprietor of the Chiteau des Ohar- 
mettes. She remained there for several 
weeks, receiving all the attention that the 
sincerest affection could indicate, until her 
friend Pauline died in giving birth to Ar- 
mand — the Doctor, of whom we have al- 
ready said so much — having with her last 
breath implored her husband to marry Marie 
Destouches, who she felt assured would 
prove a mother to her child. At Marie’s 
own request the infant was confided to the 
care of her mother and herself. M. Saul- 
nier came frequently to see the boy, and in 
due course of time he espoused Marie Des- 
touches ; the fruit of that union was Mad- 
emoiselle Bettine, the half-sister of Armand. 

From the first moment Bettine saw the 
light, Marie Saulnier recovered her pristine 
energy of mind, and devoted her time and 
talents to the education of the children, 
deeply imbuing them with her own quiet 
virtues ; and when she quitted the stage of 
life, at rather an advanced age, she had the 
happiness of leaving behind her an amiable 
girl, admirably fitted by education and by 
nature to discharge all the duties of a wife. 
In fact, Bettine had been brought up to oc- 
cupy an honorable position in society, far 
removed from the depraved influences of 
the luxurious capital ; she had been accus- 
tomed to repose on a hard couch, to rise 
with the lark, and to superintend the domes- 
tic occupations ; and the physical effects of 
this busy system became apparent in the 
ruddy bloom upon her cheek, and her elas- 
tic, springy form. Her mental development 
was no less healthful : of an open, guileless, 
happy disposition, she gave the reins to the 
natural exuberance of her gaiety, charming 
all who came in contact with her, amusing 
them with the sallies of her playful wit, and 
often smoothing down “ the wrinkled brow 
of care.” 

Bettine was not what would have been 
called a pretty woman in Paris, where peo- 
ple are critical in beauty ; for though her 
eyes were blue, the color was not sufficient- 
ly deep to accord with the presumptions of 
high beauty, and her luxuriant tresses were 
of a pale, uncertain tint; but her attrac- 
tions centred in the glow of health upon 
her cheek, an expanded brow — the seat of 


10 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


nobleness itself — and a free, open counte- 
nance, the index of the mingled firmness, 
sweetness, and purity within. 

The management of the household had 
devolved upon her from her earliest youth ; 
she knew the value and the proper duration 
of every article of consumption and of do- 
mestic use ; she paid the bills and kept the 
accounts, and although that unthankful of- 
fice brought her sometimes in collision with 
the greedy furnishers, her strict sense of 
justice, her always acting upon it, and her 
charity, caused her to be beloved by all the 
country round. Her native goodness of 
heart was shown by her constantly looking 
at the bright side of events, as they happen- 
ed in their daily course, and by the habit 
of throwing the defects of her neighbors 
into the deepest shade, whilst she brought 
only the good points of their character in 
bright and salient relief ; her even temper 
was never agitated by the wildness of en- 
thusiasm, nor had she ever given way to 
moments of darkness and despair, whilst her 
simple, unostentatious piety had taught her 
to rely with confidence upon the blessed 
promise of the Saviour of mankind. 

Such was the “ guardian angel” of the 
Chateau des Charmettes ; but the descrip- 
tion of the mansion and its inmates would 
be incomplete, without our entering a small 
chamber, opening upon the great staircase 
from the hall, elegantly furnished with car- 
pets, sofas, pictures, statuettes, and books, 
formerly tenanted by Inez Saulnier’s moth- 
er, and now temporarily occupied by her 
only brother, Fernand d’Arville. 


CHAPTER III. 

Fernand d’Aevill, who was a few years 
younger than his sister, left Paris as an at- 
tacht to the legation at Berlin at the time 
that Inez reigned in the capital, unrivalled 
in her beauty. From the unfrequent inter- 
change of letters between him and his fam- 
ily, he was unaware of the events that fol- 
lowed her secession from society, and at- 
tributed her marrying a country doctor to 
nothing less than downright confirmed in- 
sanity. 

Loving his mother with the fondest aflfec- 
tion, and proud of his sister’s most excelling 
beauty, Fernand had indulged in the day- 
dream of her marrying one of those butter- 
flies amongst the elite of the highest rank 
who were forever fluttering round. He 
deemed that the grandchild of a Duke of 
Alcantara was not unworthy of so eligible 
an alliance, but his inexperience had closed 
his eyes to the unwelcome fact, that, how- 
ever flattering the reception accorded by 


the exclusive circles of the Faubourg Saint- 
Germain to his sister’s beauty, and his mo- 
ther’s noble birth, the very instant that a 
male member of those superlatively aristo- 
cratic ranks cast a regard of true affection 
upon the lovely Inez, and talked of Hymen’s 
bonds, the memory of the banker Darville 
was invoked, and sentence of exculsion pro- 
nounced. 

When the intelligence of his sister’s mar- 
riage with Saulnier first reached Berlin, 
Fernand, deeming himself insulted and dis- 
graced, vowed never to see the peccant girl 
again ; but the ties of blood are not thrown 
off so lightly. When the period for his ab- 
sence from his duties arrived, his thoughts 
reverted to the two only relations he had 
upon the earth, and notwithstanding his 
preconceived aversion to Arman d Saulnier, 
and his prejudices against what he termed 
an “ odious, stupid village,” his steps led 
him as it were mechanically to Vesoul. 

All the bitterness of feeling he had expe- 
rienced at the misalliance vanished the mo- 
ment he beheld his sister and his mother, — 
the former suffering from a hidden grief, 
and the latter wasted by disease. The sol- 
emn, mournful look of Inez, and the con- 
tact of Madame d’Arville’s burning hand, 
checked the utterance of those sarcasms and 
reproaches that had risen ready to his lips. 
Turning to his new brother, who received 
him cordially, his quick perception told him 
that beneath that rough exterior there was 
resolution, energy of character, and a natu- 
ral dignity that enforced respect ; and when 
he beheld Bettine, hovering around his mo- 
ther like a celestial being with healing on 
her wings, and sustaining his sister’s feeble- 
ness with her own strength of mind, he felt 
himself irresistibly attracted towards the 
intelligent, devoted girl. 

It may well be supposed that the hand- 
some, gifted Fernand d’Arville had not at- 
tained his twenty-third year without being 
engaged in some of those ephemeral liaisons, 
which men dignify with the name of 
“love”; but, although his susceptible im- 
agination had sometimes made him the 
dupe of his poetical illusions, he had lived 
in an atmosphere of vice without becoming 
tainted to corruption. Occasionally he had 
mistaken a base, fabricated jewel for a pearl 
of price, but the strength of his principles 
and the refinement of his taste had kept his 
heart unscathed. § 

Although Bettine was not endowed with 
distinguished physical attractions, a halo of 
peace and purity of spirit beamed so bright- 
ly round her that the impressible Fernand 
became insensibly subject to its influence; 
in her presence he found himself a better 
man ; for the flrst time in his life he com- 
prehended the ennobling effects of simple, 
tranquil piety, and that religion which rose 
from a heart animated by gratitude and 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


11 


love, — a heart which gave itself to its Crea- 
tor in its (lays of youth, and did not, like 
the great majority of sinners, seek the con- 
solations of religion only when compelled 
by time, misfortune, an(i the extinction of 
their base passions. 

This phase of the true female character 
was perfectly new to Fernand, and, with 
the charm of novelty, began to work into 
his mind. With the usual misanthropy of 
three-and- twenty he declared himself “ Used 
up,” and sick of the frivolities, deceits, and 
delusions of the world. He began to dream 
of the ecstasy of dwelling with one of 
Eve’s bright-daughters — the woman of his 
clioice — alone in some secluded spot, where 
never mortal foot might stray — “ the world 
forgetting, and the world forgot” — and anon 
the fairy vision assumed the shape of young 
Bettine. He beheld with joy the undoubted 
preference the candid maiden manifested 
for him ; his delicate attentions, prompted 
by his desire to please, soon graved his 
image in tlie inmost recesses of her heart, 
and when Madame d’Arville, on her death- 
bed, placed Bettine’s hand in that of her 
dear son, and Saulnier, by an expressive 
gesture, gave a mute assent, Fernand im- 
pressed the kiss of the “ betrothed” on the 
fair girl’s brow, and inwardly vowed to 
support her through all those trials that 
flesh is heir to in this world, and to hold 
her forever in his heart of hearts, with an 
enduring love that knew no interruption, 
lassitude, nor bounds. 

But, unfortunately, Fernand d’Arville did 
not possess stability of character; some- 
times he experienced noble, generous im- 
pulses, but they passed off for want of per- 
severance to carry them into practical effect. 
The pastoral idea of love in a cottage with 
Bettine melted into air before the passionate 
requirements of his impetuous nature; he 
despised the tranquil delights of calm affec- 
tion, and sought an ardent, devouring pas- 
sion with its alternate joys and griefs, its 
hopes and fears, its anguish and remorse ; 
for him. Heaven’s azure vault without a 
summer’s cloud was but a dull expanse that 
weighed upon his brain like lead. 

During Fernand’s sojourn at Vesoul he 
had whiled away some hours in writing 
several small poetic pieces, which lie pub- 
lished under the romantic title of “ Perished 
Illusions.” They had obtained considerable 
success, and several gentlemen of high 
literary standing in Paris had written him 
letters of congratulation upon the merits of 
his work. ' The flattering encomiums of 
these distinguished men were milk and 
honey to his vanity ; he lapsed into a state 
of feverish excitement,— watched eagerly 
for tlie postman who brought him daily 
fresh laurels for his brow, — he devoured 
the criticisms in the magazines that spoke 
encouragingly of his work, — he began sen- 


sibly to weary of the quiet life he had so 
long led — and to all the affectionate inqui- 
ries of his sister and Bettine he curtly 
answered : — “ I am tired of the world.” 


- CHAPTER IV. 

One afternoon, at the latter end of Sep- 
tember, — when the yellow stubble glowed 
upon the glebe, which had lost its golden 
honors by the sturdy reapers’ hands, — 
when the vines, bending beneath their loads 
of purple grapes, threatened at every mo- 
ment to fall headlong to the earth, and the 
approach of autumn had commenced shading 
the foliage of the woodland trees with its 
thousand variegated tints, — the Doctor’s 
family might be seen conversing after din- 
ner in the open air ; for, in spite of Fer- 
nand’s sarcasms anci anathemas, Saulnier 
had persisted in the antediluvian habit 
of dining constantly at three o’clock. Inez 
her brother, and Bettine, were seated on a 
rustic bench, shaded by a clematis shrub, 
that blossomed in its virgin purity against 
the walls ; the little Oonsuelo crouched at 
her mother’s feet, resting her head upon her 
knees, and the Doctor, leaning upon the 
garden-gate which led to the higli road, 
appeared absorbed in the contemplation of 
all the carts that passed. 

Madame Saulnier was now thirty-two 
years old, but, from her appearance, no one 
could possibly have guessed her age. Since 
she had resided at Oharrnettes the lustre of 
her youthful beauty had faded before her 
inward wasting grief, and she had lost all 
indications of her Spanish origin. The 
splendor of her swimming sloe-black eye, — 
her winning, piquant smile, — her tall, sym- 
metrical, well-rounded, Andalusian figure — ■ 
all, all had passed away ! and in that pale and 
haggard phantom, no one could have traced 
the once lovely, fascinating Inez d’Arville. 
She wore an ample robe of silk, but, not- 
withstanding its innumerable folds, it be- 
trayed the skeleton within, which she vainly 
encleavored to conceal, not from any lurk- 
ing remains of vanity, but to spare the feel- 
ings of her family ; whilst her ebon locks, 
banded across her forehead, and descending 
down her cheeks, rendered the deathly pal- 
lor of her countenance more apparent still. 

Fernand’s manly beauty was of a distinct 
character, without the slightest assimilation 
to the Spanish type. Although muscular 
and tall, his limbs were cast in Nature’s 
finest mould; his bearing was easy, firm 
and free; every feature of his speaking 
face was what it is now the fashion to de- 
nominate “ well-chiselled ;” his hair and 
beard were of a dark chestnut color, and 


12 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


his deep blue eyes alternately lighted with 
electric fire, or languished into love. In 
truth, the women who beheld that noble 
countenance and form could not easily efface 
him from their recollection ; and the men, 
who seldom allow the possession of personal 
advantages by any of their sex, were com- 
pelled to admit that Fernand d’Arville was, 
if not an absolute Apollo, at least a very 
remarkable young man. 

All seemed occupied by their separate 
thoughts ; but, after a few minutes’ silence, 
Bettine retired with the child — “ on house- 
hold thoughts intent the Doctor, heaving 
a deep sigh, walked rapidly down the green 
avenue to the road ; and Inez, as if en- 
deavoring to escape from the spectre that 
pursued her, raised her eyes to Fernand’s, 
and murmured some commonplace obser- 
vations about the fertility of the soil, and 
the tranquil comforts of a country life. 

“ Oh, dull and miserable country !” Fer- 
nand answered, sharply, with an impatient 
move of his arm ; “ dull and monotonous 
as my life, — if this mode of vegetation can 
be dignified by such a name I” 

Inez was startled at the asperity with 
which he spoke, and looked at him in 
surprise. 

“ Speak not so, dear brother,” she said, 
in a soft, grave tone ; exclaim not against 
your destiny. The Almighty has gifted you 
with talents, strength, and health, and a 
long and honorable career extends itself be- 
fore you ; whilst I” — she continued, lifting 
her large orbs to heaven — “ will bear the 
burthen of my woe with resignation, and, 
if I perish in the attempt, will die without 
a murmur of complaint.” 

“ Do you suffer, too ?” Fernand exclaim- 
ed, astonished in his turn ; but Inez replied 
only by clasping her hands fervently to- 
gether, and pressing them convulsively up- 
on her breast. 

“ I have always thought, Inez,” Fernand 
continued, “ that the mode of life you have 
adopted for the last few years was in ac- 
cordance with your wishes and your taste. 
It is true that I saw you growing paler, and 
wasting day by day, but I attributed the 
distressing circumstance to the failure of 
your health — that common mask of perish- 
ed sympathies and broken hearts. Ah 1 
sister I you have supported your misfortune 
with the courage of a heroine — a misfortune 
beyond relief ; whilst I, at twenty-four years 
of age, with a comfortable independence, 
have only to order horses, and gallop to the 
antipodes, should it please me, to get rid of 
my enemies.” 

Inez turned her large melancholy eyes 
full upon her brother, but did not speak, 
although his words had pierced her to the 
heart, and she trembled for Bettine. Pres- 
ently she placed her transparent fieshless 
hand affectionately upon his arm, as he 


dropped his eyes upon the ground, and 
pouted like a petted child ; but the contact 
of that kind little hand thrilled through his 
frame, and awakened all the sensibilities of 
his heart, and, kissing the thin fingers af- 
fectionately, he said : 

“ Sister, if at this moment I appear to you 
fretful and unjust, it is because the demon 
of restlessness holds me in his gripe. But 
enough of my worthless self, and now let 
us talk of the error you have committed in 
allying yourself to a being such as ” 

“Speak not a word Inez interrupted, as 
a slight blush passed across her cheek — 
“ speak not a word against the man whose 
name I bear. The husk is somewhat rude, 
but it contains a noble heart, and he is 
worthy of your esteem and respect.” 

“ And yet your husband does not make 
you happy. You may envelop your regret 
in misery, but — ” 

“ No, Fernand, you are wrong. I have 
no regrets of the nature you believe.” 

“ Well, sister, I will not pursue the sub- 
ject any further, lest I should light unwit- 
tingly upon your wound.” — (Inez pressed 
his hand.) — “ But I am free to confess that, 
after the death of our dear mother, when 
grief pressed heavily upon me, I did con- 
template the possibility of sacrificing my 
diplomatic expectations, and of establishing 
myself at Oharmettes. Alas ! at that time 
I did not perceive that this haven of refuge 
would soon destroy a man of my restless, 
adventurous disposition, with its terrible 
monotony.”* 

“ Fernand I my brother !” Inez exclaimed, 
now fairly roused to energy ; “ recollect that 
now you are not alone— that another will 
soon be united to you by the tenderest ties. 
Form no rash projects for the future, I im- 
plore you. Think, oh think of the solem- 
nity of your betrothal, when our dear 
mother with her last dying breath coupled 
Bettine’s with her children’s names.” 

“I have not forgotten it,” Fernand re- 
plied, as a cloud passed across his handsome 
features ; “ I deplore the inconstancy of my 
heart — or rather; the uncertainty of my dis- 
position. Sister, it was my passionate af- 
fection for our mother that has caused this 
evil. As I beheld Bettine waiting upon her 
night and day, anticipating every want, I 
saw only a guardian angel. I mistook grat- 
itude for love, and, on the impulse of the 
moment, acceded to our dying mother’s 
wish. The obligation I then entered into 
I still hold sacred, and I will fulfil it, but 
not yet. I am young still, and must see 
more of the world before I settle down for 
life. By forcibly constraining my will I 
could marry poor Bettine immediately ; but 
in the humor in which I now am,” he added 
gaily, “ all the wisdom of Socrates and the 
eloquence of Bossuet could not render me 
happy in the married state.” 


CLOUDED HAPPIKESS. 


“Bekine,” said Inez, “is amiable, sin- 
cerely pious, and loves with a devotedness 
that engrosses her whole soul ; should you 
espouse her she will constitute your happi- 
ness, and entwine herself forever round 
your heart. But you have not told me 
all, Fernand ; some wilful projects are floating 
in your brain; there is some secret and 
powerful influence that tears you from us, 
dear brother, and I would fain know what 
it is.” 

“ None, dearest Inez. Simply I am about 
to leave you for a few months, to resume 
my professional career. Henri d’Oremont, 
who, like myself, was attached to the lega- 
tion at Berlin, writes me word it is probable 
that I shall accompany the ambassador to 
Naples.” 

“ And you will leave us with a heart as 
free from love as when you arrived here a 
few months since ?” 

“ A singular question, sister,” Fernand 
answered, with ill-concealed emotion : “ to 
whom, unless to one of your naiads of the 
Saone, can I give this flckle heart you hold 
so lightly ?” 

“ It is impossible to hide your secret from 
me ; your constant reveries, the uneasiness 
of your temper, the irritation that mingles 
in your slightest action — all prove to me 
that you are in love!” 

“ Thank Heaven I Inez, you have pre- 
served some memory of human weaknesses 
to 'act as a counterpoise to your thousand 
virtues, and prevent your spreading your 
wings and mounting into the empyrean at 
once. If you will promise me to be that 
good, indulgent sister you have always been, 
and not to laugh too much at my ridiculous, 
romantic folly, I will at once confide my 
secret to you.” 

Madame Saulnier gave the required prom- 
ise with a mournful sigh, and d’Arville, 
leaning back against the clematis, and taking 
his sister’s hand in his, began to tell “ the 
story of his love.” 


CHAPTER V. 

“ The evening before I left Berlin, I went 
to the palace, as in duty bound, to take my 
leave of his Prussian Majesty ; and, having 
been honored with a few minutes audience, 
I was returning through the waiting-room 
of the officers of the royal guard, when my 
eyes were ravished with the most lovely 
vision that ever artist drew or youthful 
poet dreamed : the head of a Madonna, 
gracefully poised upon a swan-like neck, — 
a bust of matchless beauty, — and an aerial 
sylph-like form, like Pygmalion’s enchanting 


13 

statue when first quickened by fire from 
above. 

“ As she laid aside a satin mantle that en- 
wrapped her beauteous shape, and my looks 
wep fixed upon her with a power I did not 
resist, our eyes met — met for one moment 
only — and whether from gratified vanity at 
my evident admiration, or from maiden mod- 
esty, the rich blood mantled to her cheeks. 
She was accompanied by a stately lady, far 
advanced in years, who, having taken off an 
infinity of shawls, took the peerless beauty 
by the arm ; the folding-doors opened ; the 
groom of the chambers announced : ‘the 
Duchess of Marignan !’ I was left desolate 
alone, and next morning I was journeying 
home.” 

‘‘ And is that all ?” Inez exclaimed. 

^ “ Not quite ; for I have never seen that 
vision since!” 

^ “ I breathe again !” said Madame Saul* 
nier, whose thoughts were on Bettine. 

“ Be not too hasty, sister,” Fernand an- 
swered ; “ but let me tell my tale. The 
historical portion of it has passed, but now 
for the romance. A month after the publi- 
cation of my trifling poetical effusions, 
amongst the numerous complimentary epis- 
tles that were written to me, was one signed 
‘Valerie,’ — an assumed name, most likely, 
which stimulated my curiosity in an extra- 
ordinary degree. The envelope of this most 
gratifying missive, the stj^le in which the 
contents were couched, and even the hand- 
writing, showed that my fair correspondent 
moved in the highest ranks. 

“ She treated of those mysterious sympa- 
thies which unite two souls, corporeally sep- 
arated, but born to form each other’s hap- 
piness on earth. She spoke of that affinity 
of mind which, with magnetic influence, at- 
tracts hearts together, though isolated by 
the vulgar herd ; she averred that she had 
discovered this sympathy of thought in the 
writings I had given to the world, and in 
my countenance, of which she had caught 
only a momentary glance — mark well the 
word! — but which would remain forever 
shrined within her heart. 

“I continued to receive several letters 
from Valerie, all written in the same charm- 
ing style, breathing an admixture of passion, 
delicacy, and reserve ; as if they emanated 
from the bosom of one of superior intelli- 
gence, who loved deeply, and yet feared to 
tell her love. But who, I wondered, could 
my correspondent be, who had only seen 
me for a moment ? My thoughts flew back 
to the fairy vision in the ante-chamber of 
the palace at Berlin ; her image never left 
my mind, my heart told me it was she, but 
my calmer reason would not allow the pos- 
sibility of the delightful fact. 

“ Could she — so nobly-born, so wondrous 
beautiful, and surrounded by a thousand 
worshippers — could she have stooped to 


14 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


honor with her notice an unknown, humble 
poet? Could she have culled this lowly 
flower from its sheltered bank, and placed 
it amidst the jewelled coronet that graced 
her radiant brow ? 

“Well, Inez, I received a letter here reg- 
ularly every week, and then they ceased 'at 
once. It was then I felt the full force of 
their importance to my happiness : hope — 
the light, the poetry of my life — had fled. 
I looked round me on the world, I looked 
into my own heart, and all was dark and 
barren, desolate and dead ! 

“ Ah, Inez ! often as you leaned over your 
interminable embroidery, and Bettine has 
sang gaily, like the heaven-born lark, have 
I sat writhing in my mental solitude, and 
sulffering the tortures of fear and doubt; de- 
spair and disappointment ! A hundred times 
I have formed the project of travelling 
throughout the world to find the unknown 
object of my admiration. Unknown, said I. 
Ah, no! she cannot be! Her name must be 
imprinted on her shining brow in characters 
of light ; an atmosphere of perfumed incense 
must surround her like the goddesses of old ; 
and thousands of adorers will wait upon her 
steps, and shout, with one accord : ‘ ’Tis she ! 
— ’tis Valerie !’” 

Fernand buried his face within his hands, 
and his excited feelings found relief in a 
succession of violent sobs ; and, whilst Inez 
gently drew his hands away, she whispered 
affectionately that she feared his enthusias- 
tic feelings had misled him, — that he had 
received the letters through a poetic me- 
dium, — that some waggish friend, who knew 
his failing, had been playing upon his en- 
thusiastic nature, — or that he was marked 
as a dupe by some false beauty, who sought 
one more folly before she quitted the gay 
world. 

The young man shook his head, mutely 
negativing tlie last supposition, and taking 
a small packet of letters, written on per- 
fumed satin paper from his pocket, placed it 
in his sister’s hand. The writing was close 
and minute, but very legible ; and the man- 
ner in which the notes were folded, sealed, 
and addressed, showed that the writer 
moved in the first ranks of society. No one 
knew better than Inez the inferences to be 
drawn from these apparently unimportant 
circumstances, and, on casting a glance upon 
one of the scented notes, she perceived the 
full justice of Fernand’s surmises as to the 
station of his unknown nymph, and she 
murmured involuntarily : 

“ Poor Bettine ?” 

Madame Saulnier, surprised, and indeed 
defeated — for, in becoming acquainted with 
the details of domestic management, Bet- 
tine’s caligraphy had been sadly neglected, 
and she had never fathomed the mysteries 
of borderhood envelopes and legend-bearing 
seals— retreated into her stronghold, and 


asked Fernand to allow her to pertise the 
letters attentively; observing that a wo- 
man’s innate tact in matters of the heart 
might enable her to discover whether the 
unknown was false or true in her intentions. 
Fernand assented, and, as Bettine came from 
the house at that moment with the child, 
Inez hastily concealed the packet of letters 
in her dress, and the conversation that en- 
sued assumed a general tone. 

The whole of that night Madame Saulnier 
passed in her high-backed chair, absorbed 
in the perusal of the letters her brother had 
confided to her. Confined as she had been 
for the last few years in the narrow circle 
of a country life, in almost monastic seclu- 
sion, and never permitting herself the relax- 
ation of reading a novel or romance, these 
letters recalled long banished sensations to 
her breast. She felt herself led back to the 
brilliant scenes and triumphs of her youth ; 
again she revelled in imagination in that de- 
licious, enervating, seductive, dangerous at- 
mosphere, which — all demoralizing as it is — 
if once inhaled, can never be forgotten. For 
several hours the thoughts of poor Bettine, 
her happiness or misery for life, vanished 
from her mind, as she plunged into a laby- 
rinth of sweetly written tender nothings, 
that a Parisian woman alone has the secret 
adequately to express, — a fiow of graceful 
amorous words, which, without any real 
value, or even definite meaning, distract the 
imagination, and enlist all the sympathies 
of a young ardent heart. 

She found in the correspondence of the 
self-styled Valerie considerable eloquence of 
style and facility of diction; the brilliant 
chat of the great world, mingled with quaint 
conceits and fragments of sense and sensi- 
bility — sometimes of a superior class — and 
a feminine delicacy of taste, that made these 
letters models in their way. But dazzling 
and imposing as they were they could not 
deceive the strong affection and keen in- 
spection of a woman deeply interested in 
discovering the truth, and who, like the 
writer, had mixed largely with the world. 

Without stopping to minutely analyse the 
poison it contained, Inez saw there were 
danger and treachery within the tempting 
bait ; she became convinced, by a close ex- 
amination, that the heart had no share in 
this parade of sensitiye devotion, in these 
eminently artistic lucubrations, which, in 
poetical expression and assumed depth of 
feeling approached so nearly to the language 
and the style of truth ; for she knew that a 
woman who could lay bare the secrets of 
her soul, — who, without a particle of re- 
serve, could confide her inmost thoughts to 
a man to whom she was personally un- 
known, — was wanting in that instinctive 
delicacy which is the very essence of a pure 
female mind ; and she felt — alas ! too well ! 
— that the exquisite conception and execu- 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 15 


tion, which rendered these letters so re- 
markable, were but so many irrefragable 
proofs against the existence of that impetu- 
ous, overwhelming passion, which alone 
could have dictated the step. 

She sighed as she reflected that, in former 
years, her young imagination had decked 
with gorgeous colors a correspondence as 
hollow and insidious as that of Valerie’s ; 
and that, one by one, she had placed within 
the sanctuary of her heart — like treasures 
above all price ! — protestations as fervid, as 
eloquent, as false, which her youthful heated 
fancy led her to believe were true. 

And yet the all-charming Inez had not 
been able to retain her betrayer by her side. 
He had used those subtle lines against the 
feeble ramparts of her heart, as a victorious 
commander employs engines of war against 
the walls of a devoted town; they had 
clouded her happiness and annihilated her 
repose, whilst the conqueror pursued his 
libertine career, without thinking of the ruin 
which, through one moment’s confiding mad- 
ness, he had caused. 

At a late hour Inez locked up the letters 
in her desk, knelt down, and prayed that 
Fernand, with his susceptible imagination 
and warm heart, might not become the vic- 
tim of a passion without hope, — a passion 
for a coquette, who was amusing herself by 
playing with his feelings, and eventually 
would cast him off and leave him to de- 
spair. 

On the following morning Inez, still more 
pale and feeble from her lengthened vigil, 
gave back the letters to Fernand, and said,, 
in answer to a mute look of interrogation, 
that Valerie was evidently a high-born 
woman of the world, and of considerable 
talent ; that she had seen much of life, and, 
in a moment of satiety and disgust with the 
frivolities of society, had thrown her heart 
at him, without reflecting that the perilous 
present might influence his easily-excited 
feelings, as a lighted torch thrown into a 
magazine of combustibles would carry ruin 
and death around. The silence that suc- 
ceeded to these strange and unfeminine ad- 
vances, however, showed that the temporary 
caprice had, died away; and she conclud- 
ed by saying, that should he unfortunately 
ever meet this Valerie, which she doubt- 
ed, his life and happiness would be lo^t in 
dangling attendance on her, and in endeav- 
oring to reach her heart and soften her 
disdain. 

Fernand’s vanity was touched, and he re- 
plied, pettishly, that he could not see any 
danger in that quest after the unknown that 
he had now resolved to make. If he should 
discover her, and find she was some anti- 
quated belle, he could but laugh at her 
amatory epistles ; but if she should be^ the 
vision of the royal ch^Lteau at Berlin — 
be she angel or demon — he would accost 


her, and obtain some reparation for the 
many sleepless nights she had cost him. 

“ And now sister,” he added, after this 
tirade ; in an embarrassed tone, and blush- 
ing slightly ; “ you must do me a service in 
this spot where you have so much merited 
influence — you must prepare Bettine for my 
departure; for go I will. I have not the 
puerile vanity of thinking that my absence 
will affect her seriously; besides, a few 
months’ separation from me may dispose 
her to listen favorably to the pretensions of 
our good neighbor M. Duval. I know he 
admires Bettine’s embonpoint^ and blooming 
milk-maid cheeks, of which I humbly pro- 
fess myself utterly unworthy. The amiable, 
well-assorted couple will favorably discharge 
all the duties of that serene Arcadian life 
which I cordially detest — they will attend 
to the fowls and the pigs, superintend the 
garden, scold the servants ” 

“ Oh ! frivolous, thoughtless, and super- 
ficial !” Madame Saulnier impatiently broke 
in : “ you do not appreciate the excellent 
qualities and attachment of Bettine. She is 
not mawkishly sentimental and childishly 
romantic, but she is sensible and good ; she 
loves you, brother, loves you a thousand 
times better than you think you love this 
bold, fictitious Valerie. Perhaps she will 
not seek to detain you here — perhaps she 
will reply with a calm, benignant smile to 
your farewell— but your image will be pre- 
served undyingly in the tabernacle of her 
heart — and in it, without a murmur from 
her lips, without a tear which can be seen 
except by Heaven alone, she will inter the 
hopes and the illusions of her first and only 
love.” 

“I hope not,” Fernand exclaimed, in a 
matter-of-fact style, and unheroic prose ; 
“ so much the worse for her if she does, for 
an unhappy misplaced passion only serves 
to disgust us men, who like at least a full 
reciprocity of the sentiments we inspire.” 

So saying the reckless enthusiast walked 
away, humming an air from a popular opera, 
and his heart-broken sister, clasping her 
hands together, said, in a broken voice : 

“ Thoughtless and careless of us all ! He 
casts dear Bettine’s love from him because 
she has not the aerial figure and the un- 
earthly fragile beauty of the woman that he 
raves of at Berlin, and he talks of transfer- 
ring the amiable creature to Duval as if she 
were a dog ! And I, too ! his only sister ! 
who have been a second mother to him, he 
does not see that I am dying, and that this 
separation of which he speaks so calmly will 
be our last. Oh, Fernand ! childish spirit, 
but cold, empty, selfish heart I may Heaven 
send that for you the hour of retribution 
may never come, and that your eyes may 
never be dimmed with tears as fruitless, as 
scalding as those you are now causing to be 
shed!” 


16 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


On the following morning Fernand was 
on his route to Paris ; the adieus had passed 
off marvellously well, for Bettine had not 
addressed a single reproach to the recreant 
young man, nor dropped one tear — at least 
that he had seen. 

In the evening, Inez and the forsaken one 
eat in their accustomed bench beneath the 
jessamine-covered porch, with their eyes 
constantly wandering down the road to 
Paris, — Inez still held in her hand the inter- 
minable embroidery, but Bettine’s lark-like 
songs had ceased ! And when the vesper- 
bell resounded from the parish church, the 
forsaken women burst into tears, and threw 
themselves upon each other’s necks. 

“ Let us pray to Heaven for his welfare, 
sister,” Bettine gently whispered, lifting up 
her dove-like eyes with placid resignation : 
“ he will come back !” 

“Too late, Bettine! too late!” Inez re- 
plied, in a voice as feeble as the dying 
breeze ; “ death will be here before he will 
return — my days are nearly at an end !” 



CHAPTER VI. 


Beautiful, enchanting Naples! land of 
poesy and of luxurious delights, tinted with 
the soft radiance of your own azure skies ! 
Land of delirious passion, where the breast 
yields itself up to love, as the flowers that 
gem its surface glow in the vivifying influ- 
ence of the god of day ! Land so gifted 
with terrestrial joys, that he who lingers in 
the jaws of death doubts whether the para- 
dise that opens to his eyes equals that he is 
about to leave ! Why — like all created 
things ! — do misery and despair mingle with 
the soft enervating pleasures that abound 
on every side ? And why do earthly stains 
pollute thy sunny robe ? 

Beautiful Naples : the most startling con- 
trasts are to be met with in thy lordly halls 
— and to one of the most violent in its 
aspect we will now proceed. 

It was a dark and dreary night in Decem- 
ber, 1852 ; a heavy rain fell in one continu- 
ous pattering sound, and the moaning wind 
rushed furiously, wherever it found a casual 
admittance, up the broad, massive stair- 
case, and through the long corridors, of one 
of the most extensive and elegant edifices of 
the Toledo. The first story of the Palazzo 
Lucchesini — then occupied by Prince Luigi 
of that name — was brilliantly illuminated 
for a splendid fete ; lovely women, superbly 
habited, sparkling with jewels, and bedecked 
with lace, gave themselves up to the enjoy- 
ment of the whirling dance ; and while the 
harmonious sounds of numerous instruments 
burst on the ears of the passers-by — wet to 


the skin, and shivering with cold — their 
olfactory nerves were saluted with the 
savory, tantalizing fumes of the recherch6 
viands, destined to renovate the forces of 
the guests impaired by the fatigues and ex- 
citements of the dance. 

On that eventful night, the Prince Luigi 
Lucchesini celebrated the thirty-second an- 
niversary of his birth, and the total loss of 
the second fortune he had inherited. On 
the eve of quitting Naples, to escape the 
importunities of pressing creditors, and un- 
der the singular delusion of living econom- 
ically at Paris, he had assembled all his 
friends — or rather, the companions of his 
orgies — with the full determination that his 
last f4te in Naples should surpass any that 
had ever been given in that sensual, gor- 
geous capital. 

Luigi Lucchesini was a perfect type of 
that class of madmen — whom the world 
calls men, — who do not live, but exist. At 
the same time, both prodigal and mean ; 
willing to lend his last shilling to a hon- 
mmnt to stake upon the dice, but turning 
carelessly away from the mendicant perish- 
ing for want of food upon his palace steps. 

Replete with sympathies for the affected 
indisposition of a fashionable coquette, and 
spurning the claims of modest poverty, suf- 
fering from disease. Pursuing with obse- 
quious flattery and fawning compliments 
the noble dames who use him as their vilest 
slave, and trampling under foot, without 
remorse, those confiding female hearts who, 
in momentary indiscretion, had placed their 
future fate within his hands. 

Truly, the epicurean intentions of the 
prince had been carried into full effect. 
Pendent lustres of elaborately-cut crystal 
poured a flood of light on satin hangings, 
whilst innumerable Venetian mirrors re- 
flected back their rays ; cups of burnished 
gold, filled with the richest wines, were 
continually passed to and fro ; chefs-d'^CBU'ore 
of sculpture and hot-house plants of every 
hue and fragrance were placed in all the 
available parts of the saloons, and paint- 
ings — of doubtful character, but splendid 
execution — rivalled the living groups in 
their bacchanalian delights. 

There might be seen beauty of every 
style and every clime — the languid daugh- 
ters of fair Albion, whose golden hair fell 
in long curls upon ivory necks, — the blue- 
eyed German, — the lively, piquant Paris- 
ian, — the seductive Pole,. — the indolent, 
luxurious Greek, whose long-lashed lids 
were redolent of love, — the Andalusian, 
with eye of fire, and all the hot blood of the 
sunny south coursing like lightning through 
her veins, — the voluptuous Venetian, mur- 
muring her patois through two rows of 
pearl, — and the majestic Roman, still the 
proud sovereign of the female race, as erst 
her native city had been sovereign of the 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


17 


world. As the night advanced the good 
wine did its office, and the ball became a 
revel, diversified in its phases by the varied 
temperaments of the participators in the 
maddening delights, — debts, honor, parents, 
husbands, wives, and even clamorous cred- 
itors, were alike forgotten, and pleasure 
reigned supreme. 

But, another portion of the palace pre- 
sented a far different scene. According to 
the universal custom of the Italian nobility. 
Prince Lucchesini let the upper stories of 
his palace, and, in his eagerness to procure 
the means of frantic dissipation, did not dis- 
dain to enforce the payment of the humble 
rents with all the engines of the law. 

The strains of witching music, — the 
bursts of noisy laughter, the hoarse shouts 
of drunkenness, — the trampling of feet, as 
they moved in measured time across the 
floors, — the oaths of lacqueys and coachmen 
in the great court-yard, the crash of broken 
glasses, — the howling of the wind, and the 
pattering of the rain against the window 
panes, — mingled in horrid discord, and 
pierced into a miserable garret, the abode 
of famine and despair. Tlie wet dripped in 
streaks down the bare, whitened walls, the 
wind rushed chilly down the chimney and 
through the fireless grate ; and, with the 
exception of a truckle-bed, which supported 
the lank body of a female in the last stage 
of decline, not a single piece of furniture 
was to be seen. One wretched candle, 
stuck in a piece of clay, cast a pale, uncer- 
tain glimmer on the mournful scene. 

The dying woman bore every indication 
of having been eminently beautiful in her 
youth, but now her wasted features showed 
the marks of premature old age, brought on 
by debauchery, physical suffering, and moral 
degradation. Her limbs trembled with 
cold beneath the slender covering thrown 
upon the bed; lier skeleton hands were 
clasped together upon her heavily-heaving 
chest, her parched lips were drawn up at 
the corners of the mouth, grinning “hor- 
ribly a ghastly smile,” and her fixed vacant 
stare seemed to gaze into the depths of that 
futurity into which she was speedily to 
pass. 

At length the delirium in Prince Luigi’s 
apartments attained its height, and the 
sounds of riot reached the ears of the dying 
wretch, as she lay panting and groaning on 
her bed of straw. For a few moments the 
spirit that had almost winged its flight again 
faintly re-animated its tenement of clay, 
and as the old-accustomed sounds brought 
back to her remembrance the nights when 
she had been a joyous partaker of a similar 
debauch, — when, drunk with adulation and 
crowned with garlands as fragile as Iier 
virtue, she had bartered her immortal soul 
for a brief reign of splendid vice, — she shud- 
dered in every limb, groaned fearfully, and 


closed her eyes, unclasping her hands, and 
placing them on her ears, in a vain en- 
deavor to exclude the infernal sounds. 

Theresa Ferrari was one of those miser- 
able women — the scandals of their sex — for 
whose faults and crimes a single particle of 
excuse cannot be urged. She was a Floren- 
tine by birth, and, having shown precocious 
talents, and being in possession of a mag- 
nificent voice, was brought up by her 
parents for the stage. In due time she 
made a successful debut at Naples, and for 
a considerable period was without a rival 
in the estimation of the public. Her talent 
and her beauty gained her innumerable 
lovers and devoted partisans ; every new 
character she filled was a fresh ovation, 
another acquisition to her ; fame and, amidst 
all these unexampled triumphs and the bril- 
liants offers made daily to her, her reputa- 
tion was without a stain, for she was armed 
against temptation by an honorable passion 
for a young Neapolitan artist, named Gia- 
como Castelli. 

A lucrative engagement at Vienna sepa- 
rated the lovers ; but after a short sojourn 
in that city, where she electrified the pub- 
lic, and obtained still greater triumphs, the 
prima donna was seized with a sudden in- 
disposition, threw up her engagement, and 
left the Austrian capital. Her mysterious 
disappearance gave rise to an infinity of ru- 
mors, the two most accredited being, — that 
she had married an Hungarian nobleman, 
and retired with him to his rich demesnes ; 
and that she had eloped with the chief 
tenor singer, who left the boards about the 
same time as herself. However, nothing 
more was heard of the fascinating, popular 
Theresa, — her father, uncertain of her fate, 
remained at Vienna, and died there in a 
state of indigence little creditable to his 
daughter’s heart, — until, ten years after- 
wards, the debut of a Signora Castelli was 
announced to take place at the theatre San- 
Oarlo at Naples. The first appearance of 
the cantatrice was such as had been seldom 
witnessed ; boquets and garlands were 
thrown to her on the stage, and she was 
recalled several times to receive the plaudits 
and homage of the public. The younger 
amateurs declared that Naples had never 
witnessed such a prodigy, but the older fre- 
quenters of the Opera recognized, in the 
matured lovely woman of twenty-six years 
of age, the timid girl who, ten years before, 
had charmed all eyes and fascinated every 
ear by the grace and beauty of her person 
and the splendor of her voice. 

If possible, the crowd of Theresa’s ad- 
mirers had increased ; but she repulsed their 
offers of magnificent establishments more 
decidedly than ever, for she was sincerely, 
ardently, attached to her husband, and he 
returned her love with all the jealous im- 
petuosity common to the south; indeed, 


18 


CLOUDED HAPPIKESS. 


their mutual tenderness was so excessive, 
that scornful detractors from the sanctity 
and happiness of Hymen’s bonds did not 
scruple to assert that so much affection 
could not exist between man and wife ; but, 
however that might be, they lived happily 
at Naples for some years, until Giacomo 
Castelli was attacked with brain fever, 
which speedily consigned him to the grave. 

Theresa bitterly felt her loss, and her grief 
began to undermine her health ; but, as she 
had no means of existence except her voice, 
she was compelled to resume her profession 
soon after her loved husband’s death ; for 
the public is an inexorable tyrant, who may 
possibly indulge some momentary touch of 
human sympathy, but allows no duration 
of illness or of grief in its greatest favorites 
beyond the terra it has itself prescribed. 
Queen as she appeared to be of the masses 
who thronged to the theatre to gaze upon 
her stately form, and listen to the witchery 
of the voice, she was, in fact, nothing more 
than their head slave. By what right did 
she mourn the loss of a kind, good husband, 
and give way to personal feelings of afflic- 
tion, when she was the salaried interpreter 
of joyous sentiments upon the stage ? But 
nature would not sustain her in the fearful 
conflict between the nightly mimicry of hap- 
piness and her inward, heart-consuming 
woe; her voice began to fail her, and her 
rival. Martini, pushed her hard, for the Cas- 
telli was no longer herself. 

In point of absolute professional merit and 
in the advantages of person Martini could 
not compete for an instant with Theresa, 
but she was compassionate to love-sick, 
sighing swains, and affable to all the world ; 
wliilst poor Theresa found enemies on every 
side, from the natural jealousy of the women, 
and the resentment of the men whose in- 
sulting advances she had contemptuously re- 
fused. A short time only elapsed before a 
cabal was organized by the Martini clique, 
and Theresa was hissed in one of her great- 
est characters. In a burst of indignation 
the excited prima-donna rushed off the 
stage ; the offended public rose en masse^ 
and filled the theatre with their shouts of 
rage ; however, Theresa obstinately refused 
to go through the part, and the consequence 
was that on the following day her engage- 
ment was cancelled by the manager. 

From that day the accomplished artiste 
hastened on her downward course. Accus- 
tomed to every luxury, to applause amount- 
ing to adulation, she could not endure pov- 
erty and neglect, and bear with resignation 
the victory Martini had achieved. As her 
income vanished with her engagement, and 
she would not condescend to teach, she 
began to feel the nipping pangs of want; 
day by day she pondered on a deep revenge, 
and night after night she dreamed of power 
and renovated fortune. In a few days her 


fatal beauty gave them to her, — Martini 
was dismissed by lier lover, the old Duke 
of Spezia, and Theresa took her place. 

For a long time she was known through- 
out Italy by the appellation of “ the lovely 
Florentine,” and no woman of her degraded 
position ever ruined a greater number of 
besotted men. Her whole existence was 
one unceasing round of voluptuous pleasure, 
of tumultuous delight ; and she sank thou- 
sands after thousands in continual orgies, 
committing every folly and extravagance that 
madness could devise. But youth and beauty 
are but transitory gifts, and the life Castelli 
led was not in the least calculated to make 
them last. At thirty-eight she was prema- 
turely old, withered, and abandoned ; and 
now she was dying of disease and hunger, 
within the reach of the sounds of those 
brilliant fetes in which she had long reigned 
supreme. She was perishing from inanition 
almost under the very eyes of those de- 
bauchees, who, a few short months before, 
would have thrown their fortunes at her 
feet to have been distinguished by one 
look, one kind regard. Even on the pre- 
vious evening many of them had turned 
with disgust from the ragged creature who 
implored their charity, and contemptuously 
rejected the paper she tendered to them, 
containing the simple story of her wants. 

Oh, men ! — ye who, in your vain-glorious 
pride, arrogate to yourselves the title of 
“Lords of the Creation!” — there is not, 
amongst the poor brutes whom you affect to 
despise, an animal so vile, so sordid, so de- 
graded, so ungrateful, as yourselves I Had 
these rich, noble libertines but known that 
in that wretched garret,— that miserable 
abode of degradation, fame, and despair, — 
a lily bloomed, which the impure breathings 
of the world had not yet touched : had they 
but been aware that the unhappy woman 
had a child lovelier than she had ever been, 
— had they but known there was a soul to 
taint, a beauteous flower to wither and de- 
stroy, — Ah ! assuredly the mother of such a 
treasure would not have died from want ! 

By way of counterpoise to her many vices 
Theresa Castelli preserved one single virtue, 
— her watchful care for the purity of her in- 
fant daughter, Giuditta. Soon after her hus- 
band’s death Theresa placed the child with 
Giacomo’s aunt, Monna Peppina, with whom 
she resided for some years, in such strict se- 
clusion that her existence was not known 
to her mother’s acquaintances and friends. 
Like to the miser, who buries his darling 
treasure far from human ken, and from timo 
to time visits the spot where it lies conceal- 
ed, to feast his eyes with the aspect of his 
gold, so occasionally the courtesan would 
quit her haunts of splendid infamy, and re- 
pairing to the cottage where Giuditta was 
placed, would bend for hours over the cradle 
of her slumbering child. Sometimes, yield- 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


19 


ing to tlie influence of the peaceful scenes, 
she would endeavor to recollect the prayers 
that had been taught her in her early youth, 
and then deep sighs would rend her breast, 
and the scalding tears would trickle down 
her cheeks as she thought of her lost state 
in agony of heart. 

When the capricious tide of fortune left 
the once lovely Florentine, the necessity of 
removing Giuditta from the cottage, thus 
exposing her to the contaminating contact 
of the vicious city, almost broke her heart. 
But there was no alternative, for Monna 
Peppina was a woman of strong religious 
and moral principles, and could not think 
of bringing up the daughter of a courtesan 
almost in rags. Peppina’s rigid severity 
was only to be softened by rich presents, 
and her immaculate purity yielded only to 
the influence of gold. So long as the gor- 
geous Florentine had money at her com- 
mand, that money effectually restrained all 
cavils at her conduct ; but, in the same ratio 
as she gradually descended from her high 
estate, and trod the downward path to in- 
digence, the indignation of the pious matron 
increased step by step, and when Giuditta’s 
mother could no longer afford to pay more 
than liberally for her daughter’s board, Mon- 
na Peppina stated that her religious scruples 
would not permit her to take charge of the 
child of so notorious a lost sheep from the 
fold. 

These scruples of the super-pious, ultra- 
moral dame were, unfortunately, too com- 
mon to excite the least surprise ; but what 
in reality did seem passing strange, was the 
regret Giuditti felt in leaving the spot where 
her young years had passed away in any- 
thing but happiness. Blows and reproaches 
had fallen daily to her lot, but they were rec- 
ompensed by the delight she took in wan- 
dering on the emerald sward, beside the sea- 
shore at Sorentum ; and there she would lie 
for hours, beneath an orange tree, shaded 
from the burning, azure sky; and now this 
glorious expanse of view across the unrival- 
led bay, the bright meridian sun, and the 
soft evening breeze, were changed for the 
pestiferous atmosphere of a close little cham- 
ber, where her elder brother Beppo and her 
mother lodged. The impurities arising from 
the densely-packed apartments, and the 
want of air, pressed heavily upon the child ; 
the color fled from her cheek, and her ro- 
bust health was giving way, whilst she de- 
rived no comfort in her new position from 
her mother, who wrapped herself up in her 
own misery, and spoke with icy coldness to 
her child ; and as for her brother Beppo, his 
manner of existence, and his general bear- 
ing, inspired her with horror and disgust. 

Less fortunate than his sister, Beppo had 


been brought up in his mother’s various re- 
sidences ; he had been the idol of Theresa, 
and, from his extraordinary beauty and pre- 
cocity, the spoiled child of the depraved 
men and women who assisted at her f^tes. 
The latter smiled at and applauded his sal- 
lies, tinged with the unctuous libertinism of 
maturer years ; and the former taught him 
to drink deep and swear, and encouraged 
his every tendency to vice. The results of 
such an education could not fail to develop 
themselves at an early period, and, conse- 
quently, at sixteen years of age Beppo was 
a drunkard and gambler, and could mate 
with the most consummate roui in all Na- 
ples in debauchery; a pirate would have 
shuddered at the obscenities, the fearful 
blasphemies that issued from his lips — form- 
ed like a seraphim’s for prayer — and have 
recoiled before the dull, glassy, drunken ex- 
pression of his deep blue eyes. 

This revolting contrast between Beppo’s 
physical and moral nature, — this violent op- 
position of his debasing practices and super- 
human beauty, — and the contagious, vicious 
atmosphere in which he lived, shocked her 
sensibility, and every phrase he uttered 
startled and alarmed the instinctive purity 
of the innocent young girl. 

Giuditta felt greater indulgence for the 
faults of her now afflicted mother ; the fail- 
ing health of the miserable woman, the pri- 
vations she endured, and the brutal outrages 
she experienced from her son, awakened the 
tender commiseration of Giuditta, who, 
with the magnanimity of all noble natures, 
frequently denied herself necessaries that 
she might contribute towards alleviating 
the wants of her mother. 

Notwithstanding her inexperience of the 
world, sometimes a frightful suspicion of the 
cause of her mother’s misery would pass 
across her mind, and then all the horrors of 
her position did not seem undeserved ; but 
she did not constitute herself Theresa’s 
judge, although she feared that, in looking 
back upon the past, she felt deeper regret 
for her lost luxuries than sincere repentance 
for her faults. When Giuditta’s frank, open 
countenance sought her mother’s restless 
eyes, they quailed beneath her glance ; she 
perceived with unfeigned sorrow that Bep- 
po’s coarse pleasantries and lascivious jests 
recalled her mother’s gaiety, but still the 
amiable, confiding girl, whose heart was full 
of love and the desire to be loved, endeav- 
ored to cast a veil of darkness upon her 
mother’s faults; and, far from indulging 
curiosity with respect to her former course 
of life, would, like Sterne’s recording angel, 
have “ dropped a tear upon it, and blotted 
it for ever” from her mind. 


20 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Suddenly Theresa Castelli withdrew her 
skeleton finj^ers from her ears, a ghastly 
smile passed over her ashy lips and pallid 
face, and she beat time to the strains below, 
as if her vascillating memory endeavored to 
recall some delicious passages of her former 
guilty life. Regardless, perhaps unaware, of 
the presence of her child, whose youth and in- 
nocence she had hitherto carefully respected, 
she feebly uttered some words, which hissed 
fearfully in the girl’s ears, and caused her 
to tremble in every limb. 

“ Oh ! Mother !” she exclaimed, throwing 
herself in tears upon the foot of the wretched 
bed : “ Oh ! do not listen to that horrible 
music that sounds so furiously below. Think 
of the Almighty, and pray to him merci- 
fully to look down upon us in our present 
misery.” 

For a moment reason resumed her throne 
in poor Castelli’s brain, the lurid fire passed 
from her eye, her haggard features became 
composed, her hands were still, and, turning 
to her daughter with a look of love, she 
said : 

“ It is impossible, Giuditta, I have for- 
gotten all my ])rayers, — aye, and everything 
except the cold that freezes me and the 
piercing hunger that devours me. Give me 
some food, daughter, for the love of God, 
give me some bread! This morning you 
sold my golden cross, the last gift of dear 
Giacomo, the only man who ever truly 
loved me; the money it produced is under- 
neath my pillow, — take it, Giuditta, for I 
have not the strength.” 

Giuditta passed her hand under the pil- 
low, but her search was useless, — the money 
had disappeared I 

“ Holy Virgin I” she cried ; “ thou miser- 
able, dastardly Beppo !” recalling to her 
mind that her brother that morning, when 
bidding farewell to his mother, had leaned 
over her for a few moments, and must have 
stolen the purse. 

‘‘ Bread, bread !” Theresa muttered, writh- 
ing in, agony; “do you not see that I am 
perishing of hunger, whilst you, unnatural 
cliild, are sporting with my tortures, and do 
not make an effort to relieve them. Go to 
the Duke of Spezia, — no, remain here, or 
you too would be lost 1” 

At that moment the door of the garret 
opened, and Beppo appeared, flushed with 
wine. 

“Oh! ho!” he hiccupped; “what does 
all this outcry mean ? But I can guess well 
enough ; the same old story, I suppose — 
neither money, bread, nor fire ; all because 
Signora Giuditta, the pearl of all the pret- 
ty girls of Naples, has made a vow to live 
and die in the service of the goddess Vesta, 
as they used to say in ancient Italy, when 
the Government paid young women to 


keep up a fire which never yet did burn of 
its own accord.” 

Giuditta heard the taunt unmoved, and, 
rising to her feet, sprang towards her broth- 
er, and dragged him towards the bed 
where his mother lay, with the death rattle 
in her throat. 

“Beppo!” she cried, fixing her large 
speaking eyes upon him, whilst her dulcet 
voice rose like a clarion’s silver sound above 
the howling tempest and the furious de- 
bauch ; “Oh! villain, villain! I knew you 
were depraved, brutalized, degraded, an un- 
natural brother, an infamous child, — a man 
without a glimmering of honor, — but I did 
not think you were a thief!” 

Beppo turned his head away, staggered 
slightly, and strove to stand erect in drunk- 
en dignity, whilst Giuditta continued to up- 
braid him with increasing eloquence and 
energy. 

“Yes! — a thief af the most abandoned 
class, — a robber, who in giving his dying 
mother a treacherous Judas kiss, stole from 
her the last pittance which she had gained 
by parting with that which was to her as 
her heart’s best blood, — the last gift to her 
of our father on his death-bed, impressed 
with his last kiss, — the image of all that 
is holy, good, and pure, — that precious relic 
which she had fondly hoped to carry with 
her to the tomb, — and which this morning 
she was obliged to part with to procure us 
even bread ! You ! — her son ! — the man 
who ought to work to procure her the 
means of subsistence ! — you have robbed 
her of the last farthing that was to have 
procured her food before her final agony ! 
Villain! miserable, matricidal villain ! where 
is the money? Restore it instantly, or on 
my soul I will denounce you and see you 
dragged to jail.” 

The young man had been surprised for a 
few moments by Giuditta’s passionate ap- 
peal, but recovering all his brutal audacity 
he easily threw the slight girl roughly froni 
him, and shaking his first angrily at her, said : 

“Silence, girl! silence! I say, what need 
is there of all this outcry? AVell, and if I 
did take the wretched trifle you make so 
much fuss about, it was only to try my luck 
with the dice, and if the Devil had not be- 
witched the trotting bones, I should have 
doubled the sum, and then put it back. 
But I have lost it, as the infernal fates 
would have it ; and if it had not been for 
Beatrice, the Biondina, giving me a morsel 
to eat and a few cups of wine, I must have 
returned to this cursed den as empty as my 
pockets. But take care, sister of mine, 
how you treat me, for I am not in a temper 
to bear any jokes to-night.” 

“ Brother,” Giuditta replied, trying the 
effects of gentleness, “ excuse me if I spoke 
harshly to you ; our mother is dying— dying 
of hunger, Beppo !” 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


21 


“ After wasting millions,” was the coarse 
reply. 

“Whatever her errom and faults may have 
been, it is not for us to sit in judgment on 
them. Has she not been a good mother to 
us both ? Did she not watch tenderly over 
you night and day when you were ill ? — did 
she not satisfy all your caprices whilst she 
was possessed of money ? — and now look at 
her ! Beppo, will you suffer her to die for 
want of bread ? Give me what remains of 
the money, if it be only a few pence, and I 
will run and fetch some bread, for if she has 
it not she cannot survive this night.” 

Hardened as Beppo was he could not re- 
sist this last appeal : he searched eagerly in 
his pockets, but not a coin remained. 

“Empty!” he exclaimed, with a brutal 
oath ; “ as dry as the sea-beach at low 
water. Not a carlino left! But how could 
I help it? It was the chance of play, and 
ill-luck pursued me. However, calm your- 
self, sister, the Duke of Spezia leaves for 
Italy to-morrow : Beatrice will then be free, 
and will come and help us.” 

When the youth had concluded these few 
words he laid himself down upon the planks ; 
and, swearing at the hardness of the bed, 
disposed himself to sleep. 

Theresa’s groans became more feeble 
every instant, and the rattling in her throat 
more painfully distinct. Giuditta, in despair, 
knelt down by her brother, took his hand 
in hers, and implored him by all men hold 
dear upon this earth, — by his hopes of hap- 
piness in this world and immortality here- 
after, — to come to his mother’s aid — but she 
implored in vain. He raised himself upon 
his arm, and with an angelic smile, and in 
mellifluous, insinuating tones, this emissary 
of the fiend launched some sarcasms against 
the folly of female virtue, and impeached 
the justice of all laws, both human and di- 
vine. According to his attractive painting, 
luxurious splendid vice was the first neces- 
sary of existence, tlie only true felicity on 
earth, and virtue — ridiculous virtue ! — was 
penury, despair, and death. 

Perceiving that his glowing description 
failed to move the girl, the wily scoundrel 
turned to the subject that he knew en- 
grossed her soul. He spoke of the proba- 
bility of her being the instrument of restor- 
ing their mother’s health ; was it not a holy 
duty to sacrifice herself — if she deemed it a 
sacrifice— in such a cause, when there was 
one beneath that roof, — one, noble and sur- 
passingly wealthy, — who had honored her 
with his notice, and longed to place his for- 
tune at her feet ? 

“ The Prince of Lucchesini loves you,” he 
said ; “ go, and appeal to him for our suf- 
fering mother. He is rich and generous to 
a fault; speak to him, his hand will open at 
your voice, and our parent will be saved.” 

There was an appearance of truth and 


reason in Beppo’s insidious speech, that 
made his specious arguments doubly dan- 
gerous to a girl in the fatal circum- 
stances in which Giuditta was placed : 
the inexperienced lovely girl had but very 
vague ideas of the danger she incurred, in 
applying for charity to a libertine in the 
midst of an orgy, and at that time of night, 
whilst the positive destitution of her mother 
and herself stared her in the face. The 
dying woman’s moans, the sinews of her 
wasted limbs that shivered with the cold, 
and the pinchings of her own long unbroken 
fast, were so many evil spirits evoked to 
drag her to despair. In agony of soul she 
leaned upon the bed, imprinted one long 
loving kiss upon her mother’s hand, and 
bathed it with tears as she murmured some 
broken words of hope. 

Theresa felt the affectionate embrace, and 
made a last effort to encircle her daughter 
with her arms. 

“ My own dear child, my guardian angel,” 
she said at intervals, in a tone so low that 
Giuditta could scarcely hear her ; “ when I 
am no more — listen to me — take this little 
locket that is suspended round my neck — it 
has been carefully preserved by me — and 
perhaps some day ” 

Her strength failed her when she had pro- 
ceeded thus far, her words expired on her 
lips, and she fell back senseless on the bed. 

“ May the Holy Virgin have pity on my 
soul,” burst from Giuditta, as she dropped 
upon her knees beside the wretched couch ; 
“ the moment of the sacrifice is come, for 
Heaven will not turn this cup of misery 
and opprobium from my lips.” 

She prayed inwardly for a few minutes, 
and then, regaining her feet, walked rapidly 
from the room, with staring eyes and heav- 
ing breasts, scarcely conscious of the danger 
she incurred. Although her step was light, 
the hardened robber Beppo shuddered as 
she passed by him as he lay, and her foot- 
fall fell upon his ear like the dull tramp of a 
funereal march : he watched her sylph-like 
form until he lost it as she flitted down the 
stairs, and then, with a suppressed groan, he 
laid his head upon his arm, and again 
sought his troubled rest. 

A charitable veil must be cast upon the 
occurrences of that fatal night ! Suffice it 
to say that, when the first gray streaks of 
dawn pierced through the broken panes, 
Giuditta returned, bearing a basket contain- 
ing a few simple restoratives, some food, 
and a little charcoal on her arm, and the 
stentorious breathing of Beppo’s drunken 
sleep alone disturbed the silence of the 
room. 

Every feature of the young gii-l’s face was 
fixed as monumental brass ; her once liquid 
eyes were hard, and glowed with preternat- 
ural fire, and she moved mechanically, 
without seeing, without hearing, like one 


22 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


who walks in a deep sleep. She placed the 
basket on the floor, hurriedly thrust a purse 
of gold within the bosom other dress, and 
then cautiously approached the truckle 
bed. Suddenly a heart-rending shriek rang 
through the now silent and deserted halls : 
the sacrifice was naught ! — the martyrdom 
was vain ! — and Giuditta fell senseless on 
her mother’s corpse ! 


CHAPTER YHI. 

When the luckless orphan came some- 
what to herself the day was far advanced, 
the rain had ceased to fall, the wind had 
lulled, and the rays of the bright sun beamed 
gladly in the chamber of the dead. 

Some charitable hands had raised the 
girl, placed her in a sitting posture, with 
her head reclining on the bed, and covered 
the dead body with a sheet, but she was too 
much stunned with her misfortune to look 
from whence the succor came. For a long 
time she endeavored to reduce to a certainty 
the confused ideas that wandered through 
her troubled brain like shapeless dreams. 
Frequently she pressed her hands convul- 
sively upon her forehead, then looked with 
amazement on her disordered dress, and the 
long meshes of her hair that strayed upon 
her neck, until at length her eyes rested 
upon the purse, that had fallen on the 
ground, and all the horror of her position 
rushed upon her mind. She thought with 
dismay upon the protracted sufferings of her 
mother, her struggles against famine, the 
frenzied shouts and songs that had mingled 
with the moans of death, and her brother’s 
infamous persuasions to address the prince. 
Then she reflected — Oh ! how bitterly ! — 
that the filial immolation came, alas ! too 
late, and the tears coursed in torrents down 
her cheeks. 

It must, however, be admitted, that the 
deep grief of the young Italian was not 
solely founded on sincere repentance for 
the faults she had committed, urged by mis- 
taken duty, and her dying mother’s groans. 
Nurtured in almost savage freedom, without 
the shadow of constraint, — leading a life of 
indolence under a burning sun, which fired 
the passionate blood that had descended to 
her from Theresa, — the solitary child had 
not arrived at. fifteen years of age without 
dreaming sometimes of the delights of love. 
^ Sunburnt and ill-clad as she had always 
" been, Giuditta knew she possessed attrac- 
tions beyond the common lot. In her rev- 
eries she had seen herself wooed by some 
handsome fisherman, or a prince in disguise 
— she was not quite sure which — but there 
were to be, as is usual in all such cases, meet- 


ings beneath the light of the silver moon, 
soft greetings and whisperings in the orange 
groves, banquets, and kisses given and re- 
ceived, and happiness that knew no end. 
And now she awoke from these day-dreams 
to find herself the puppet of a libertine, — to 
think that she had bartered her innocence 
for a wretched sum of gold. 

It was the sense of this debasement that 
caused her tears to flow ; she bent beneath 
her sorrow as a sapling bends beneath the 
tempest blast ; she cursed the hour in which 
she had seen the light, and with that Italian 
fervency which in joy or sorrow knows no 
bounds, she prayed for instant death.” 

“How stupid it is of you, ray dear, to 
give way to useless grief!” said a friendly 
voice, close to her ear; “you are young, 
lovely, and have money in your purse ; your 
prospects are too bright and gay to indulge 
in so much sorrow.” 

Giuditta started at the sound of these 
compassionate accents, and, looking round, 
perceived a female sitting on the bed, re- 
garding her with pity, not unmixed with con- 
tempt. This woman appeared to be about 
twenty-five years old, of the lowest class, 
but of that resplendent beauty of which 
Titian and Georgione have left so many 
specimens. Her eyes were almond-shaped 
and languishing, though black, her complex- 
ion brilliantly fair, and her long, floating 
tresses were of a dark auburn tint. Her ac- 
cent was uncouth, and her mode of speak- 
ing rough ; the expression of her face was 
wanting in that delicacy which comprises 
one of the chief female charms, but there 
was a certain open frankness in it that in- 
vited confidence from the uninitiated in the 
dark ways of the world. 

On looking at her more attentively Giu- 
ditta recognized Beatrice, the woman whom 
Beppo had mentioned on the previous night, 
and whom, whilst he was gone to make the 
preparations for the funeral, he had sent to 
offer such assistance and consolation as her 
gross nature was capable of rendering to his 
sister. 

“ Why dost thou weep so, child ?” she 
continued, patting Giuditta’s pallid cheek ; 
“ tears will not bring back the dead. Poor 
Theresa Castelli I Her last days were any- 
thing but happy, it must be confessed, and 
perhaps it is better for her that she has 
escaped from further misery. Dry your 
eyes, my pretty lass, and listen to me. You 
have a purse tolerably well-lined, as I see ; 
with some of the sparklers in it, you shall 
have some masses said for the repose of your 
mother’s soul, and until you can make some 
arrangements for yourself you can come and 
live with me. That is, if it suits you,” she 
said, with a slight toss of her head, “ for I 
am no saint, I tell you. My name is Beatrice 
Panizzi — ‘ La Biondina ’ — and my dear de- 
parted father, Pietro, was hanged last year, 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


23 


for taking a moonlight walk on the highway 
one night with a few of his good friends.” 

Giuditta trembled and turned pale, for she 
had lieard of this abandoned wotnan, and 
knew also that Pietro had been a notorious 
robber, whose band had long infested the 
highways in the neighborhood of Poastuin. 

“You hesitate,” said La Biondina, attect- 
ing a careless, indiiferent air, but secretly 
wounded at Giuditta’s silence ; “ well, well, 
don’t annoy yourself in any way ; my in- 
tentions were kind, and I made you an offer 
that I never made to any one before ; but 
no matter, refuse it if you like, we shan’t 
quarrel about that.” 

A moment’s reflection showed Giuditta 
that slie needed all the assistance she could 
find, and, taking Beatrice’s hand, she said : 

“ Be not angry with me, for I am in 
despair, and know not what to do. You 
believe that it is pride that makes me hesi- 
tate to accept your offer, but you do not 
know that I have lost the right of despising 
the most worthless creature that crawls up- 
on the earth. This money is the price of 
my eternal shame; take me with you, if 
you still desire the company of one so lost 
as I am !” 

A cloud passed over the Biondina’s hand- 
some brow ; her heart, whose female sym- 
pathies had been dulled and hardened by 
long contact with the vicious portion of man- 
kind, softened with unaccustomed tender- 
ness at beholding the pale, trembling girl, 
scarcely emerged from childhood, drawn 
irresistibly by cruel fate towards the gulf of 
infamy, of which she knew by sad expe- 
rience the dark and frightful depth. 

The history of Beatrice has been a com- 
mon one in all ages and all lands. Betrothed 
from her earliest years to her cousin, an 
honest artisan, her affection was returned 
ardently by him, and they were on the point 
of marriage, when her father Pietro was 
condemned to a felon’s death for the com- 
mission of an aggravated crime, and conse- 
quently the contemplated union was ab- 
ruptly broken off. Unfortunately for 
Beatrice she loved her cousin with bound- 
less intensity of passion ; his cruel desertion 
wrecked her happiness forever, and from 
that moment her life was passed in dissipa- 
tion, of the lowest grade, in the vain hope 
of cfriving his remembrance from her heart. 

Too frequently, alas ! the happy mothers 
of obedient, graceful, loving families, rich 
in the respect and admiration of the world, 
and rigidly discharging their social and do- 
mestic duties, lift up the hands and curl the 
lip at the bare mention of the poor victims 
of men’s perfidy, and deceive themselves 
into the belief that they are furthering the 
progress of morality. Ought they not 
rather to feel grateful to the Most High for 
casting their lots in a peaceful and honora- 
ble position — for shielding them from those 


temptations to which their erring sisters 
have been exposed: and ought they not, 
whilst pitying their sad fall, to strive to 
excite repentance in their hearts, and by 
kindness win them back to virtue and to 
good. 

Amongst these poor lost creatures there 
are some who have yielded through mo- 
mentary weakness, or succumbed to tem[)ta- 
tions too overpowering to withstand, — some 
who pined away their lives and died with- 
out one sigh reaching the ears of their 
destroyers, — whilst others, of sensual, gross- 
er frame, have fought against their fell desti- 
ny, and strove to drown despair in riotous 
debauch, until their miserable existence has 
terminated in a suicidal death. 

Poor, ignorant, deluded wretches ! they 
knew not that this dread evidence of their 
grief and ignominy was an additional flower 
in the garlands that bind the brows of their 
seducers. They knew not that the fragile 
flowers that blossomed on their tombs last 
longer than their remembrance amongst 
those heartless men. 

But the greater part of these unhappy 
creatures seek, by a deeper shade of degra- 
dation, to forget their first fatal lapse ; yet 
who can tell hoAV far they may succeed in 
steeping their senses in forgetfulness ? Who 
knows but that, in the revel’s height, a look, 
a thought, the odor of a flower, some long- 
forgotten strain, may evoke the reminis- 
cence of buried happiness, of early days of 
innocence and peace. Perhaps that single 
tear, dropped in the cup of gross abandon- 
ment, may start from a long- obstructed 
source of purity ! Gather it up, then, ye 
mothers ! strong in your immaculate virtue! 
Rescue your fallen sister from the gibes, the 
maledictions of the brutal, thoughtless 
crowd, and say to her — in those blessed 
words, which for eighteen centuries have 
been uttered to the Magdalens of every 
land : “ Thy sins are forgiven thee : depart 
in peace !” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Beateice’s temperament was of so elastic 
a nature that her impressions were never of 
long duration ; her thoughts were speedily 
diverted into another train, and, shaking 
back her long tresses, which fell in a rich 
silken veil upon her heaving bosom, she 
threw aside at the same moment the dark 
ideas that had held temporary dominion 
over her, whilst her face assumed its custom- 
ary thoughtless, gay expression. 

“The Duke has left for Sicily,” she ex- 
claimed, after a few moments’ silence; 
“ whilst you are making up your mind as to 
what you will do hereafter, I will receive 


24 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


you in my lodgings, as well as your scape- 
grace of a brother, whom I care a great deal 
for, and would even marry, although he 
treats me little better than he would a dog. 
When old Spezia returns he will find the 
cage empty and the bird flown, with his 
jewels and everything portable in the es- 
tablishment.” 

“ Are they your own ?” Giuditta said, 
with an involuntary shudder. 

“ Mine or his, what signifies, carina ? If 
the old fool takes it amiss he dare not make 
a fuss about it, for fear that I should talk 
louder than him, and so his jealous wife 
should hear of his amours. We shall be rich, 
Giuditta, then, and you can live with us.” 

This sounded strangely in the young or- 
han’s ears, for, bad as she knew Beppo to 
e, she could not endure the thought of his 
marrying the vile daughter of the notorious 
robber and murderer Panizzi ; but when she 
thought of this same brother, — of what, in 
all probability, her reckless mother had been, 
— and of the thing she might become her- 
self, a stolid resignation, the offspring of 
despair and shame, took unlimited possess- 
ion of her soul. Her crushing grief repelled 
her tears and stilled her sobs ; silently and 
doggedly she prepared to follow Beatrice to 
her abode of infamy, when an abrupt oc- 
currence re-awakened all the susceptibility 
of her impetuous nature. 

“Take your money, child,” La Biondina 
said, picking the purse up from the floor, 
and handing it to the trembling girl, “ for if 
it falls into the claws of my tender affianced 
husband, depend upon it you will never see 
another carlino of the pretty stuff.” 

Giuditta thrust back the money Beatrice 
would have placed within her hands, whilst 
her whole frame quivered with excitement, 
and she gradually worked herself into a 
passion that defied all bounds. 

“ No, no !” she cried ; “ keep this accursed 
gold for your own uses, or give it to Beppo ; 
since it came from crime it ought to be con- 
signed to infamy, but at all events it shall 
never pollute my hands. Oh ! God !” she 
exclaimed, tearing herself from Beatrice, 
who had encircled her with her arms, and 
casting herself upon her mother’s body; 
“ Oh ! gracious Heaven ! why did you not 
lay me lifeless by my mother’s side ? Stand 
off, base woman ; touch me not, for I hate 
you, I despise you, — and so now, begone !” 

The stock of La Biondina’s sympathy was 
not proof against this insult ; the instinctive 
degrading passions that held sway within 
her resumed their bent, and she retreated 
from the poor girl’s side with a gesture of 
anger and contempt. Stopping short as she 
crossed the room, she lifted her hand as 
though she would have cast the purse upon 
the floor, but a sudden thought passing across 
her brain, she half-murmured “ Beppo,” 
thrust it hurriedly into her bosom, and, w’ith 


another furious look, she darted out, slam- 
ming the door with violence behind her. 

When the sound of her footsteps was 
heard no more upon the bottom of the 
staircase, and Giuditta found herself alone 
with her mother’s corpse, she experienced 
considerable relief; her tears flowed fast, 
and lost a portion of their bitterness. The 
silence and isolation of that chamber fell for 
a moment like balm upon her heart ; but 
again a convulsive reaction seized upon her, 
and, with all the terrific passion of the 
south, she gave way to the torrent of her 
misery and despair. 

Ah ! who can pretend to analyse the va- 
rious tumultuous thoughts that burned like 
lava all that drear day in the young girl’s 
desolate, lone heart. At the beginning of 
the night she was a child — in innocence as 
well as age — but ere the twinkling stars 
paled before the first bright streaks of dawn 
her sad destiny was accomplished, — the 
die was cast! — the virgin had become a 
guilty woman, and the mark of future vice 
was stamped indelibly upon her brow. 
The thorny crown of early fatal experience 
had replaced the maiden fillet, her youthful 
dreams of happiness and love were scattered 
to the winds, and her dishonored beauty 
was now as a flower that had lost its sweet 
perfume, — a lyre without chords 1 

Was she not, she thought, as she dried 
her eyes and rose from off' her knees, a fit- 
ting associate for Beatrice and Beppo? 
Fate presented to her only two alternatives 
— each of which was alike disgusting — 
either to live in penury or vice. She knew 
no trade, she could not use her needle, and 
had not been taught even to read and write ; 
and she had not the least chance of learning 
how to work, for the meanest artisan in all 
the city would shrink from receiving the 
sister of the infamous Beppo and the daugh- 
ter of Oastelli. 

Casting herself upon her knees by the 
side of the wretched truckle-bed that sus- 
tained her mother’s body, covered with a 
sheet furnished by the compassion of a 
courtezan, Giuditta lifted up the cloth, and 
gazing upon the emaciated limbs and livid 
features of the stiffening corpse, sought to 
divine the mysteries that shrouded her 
mother whilst in life. What crimes, she 
thought, or what dire misfortunes could 
have brought her to that miserable end, — 
and how could it be that a woman, who 
had long lived in the very lap of luxury, 
should die of famine, a creature abandoned 
both by God and man ? 

Alas, poor Giuditta had lived a whole 
century in those few hours ! She who had 
passed her young existence so gaily in the 
bright world of flowers was how struck, 
on the instant, with so severe a blow that 
she scarcely dared to look into the senti- 
ments of her heart as they revolted ' against 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


25 


the decrees of Providence, and she ques- 
tioned the inimutable justice of the Lord. 
Dark thoughts came over her: her present 
lot was totally unbearable ; it was imposed 
upon her without her own consent, for no 
crime, but for having in a moment of irre- 
pressible delirium sacrificed herself in obey- 
ing the impulses of filial love. Had she 
not, then, a right to thrust it from her as a 
burthen too heavy for her heart, a thing of 
present desolation, presaging a gloomy fu- 
ture, without one ray of hope ? So young, 
so hopeless, she beheld ruin alone before her 
eyes ; she raved, she uttered frightful exe- 
crations, and anon she mechanically — with- 
out comprehending — prayed to the Al- 
mighty, whom she knew only as a name ; 
and again she threw herself upon her 
mother’s body, and covered the long thin 
fingers with her kisses, and bathed them 
with her tears. 

Suddenly she ceased her lamentations 
and stood proudly erect, for she had made 
up her mind to die ; but, as she still held up 
the mort-clotli to take one last look of 
Theresa’s face, her eyes fell upon a narrow 
black velvet ribbon placed around her 
mother’s neck, to which a miniature locket 
was suspended. She recollected instantly 
the words that were interrupted by the 
dying agony, and detaching the locket from 
Oastelli’s neck, for her only heritage, saw 
that it contained a gold medallion, on one 
side of which was the portrait of a young 
child, and on the other a tress of auburn 
hair. At that moment she heard the sound 
of ascending footsteps on the stairs. She 
felt it could bo no one but Beppo, coming 
to make the trivial arrangements he would 
deem necessary for their mother’s funeral ; 
and, as she could not bear to meet him, 
she hid herself behind the door of the 
chamber as he entered, and, whilst he ad- 
vanced towards the bed, crept silently out, 
descended the stairs, and stole into the 
street. 

It was a lovely winter’s morning, such as 
is only to be seen in Naples ; the air was 
so soft and pure, the sun so bright, and the 
Toledo, in which Lucchesini’s palace was 
situated, so gay with horsemen and car- 
riages, that Giuditta found inexpressible 
relief so soon as she gained the street, and, 
with all the varying temperament of a Nea- 
politan of only fifteen years of age, she fell 
into another train of thought. At that 
happy period of existence there are so many 
springy resources in the soul, such boundless 
material energy, that distaste and hatred of 
existence cannot make bead against the in- 
voluntary visions of happiness that bind the 
heart to life. Despair and tears are but the 
summer’s clouds that temporarily obscure 
the brightness of the sun, and the sparkling 
smile returns as naturally to the lips of a 
young girl as brilliance to the landscape 


after a thunder-storm. But, alas! it is 
widely different in after years I Then tears 
scorch and burn, and wear deep furrows in 
the cheek ; no ease can come along with 
them, although they fiow like rain ; and 
even when years shall have passed away, 
and their springs are dried within our 
hearts, our eyes will shrink and close before 
the god of day, and the light, laughing 
smile has passed forever from our lips. 

As Giuditta walked up the great street 
called the Toledo, she thought no more of 
dying ; hope came with light and heat, the 
thought of her childhood’s home rushed 
back upon her, and turning quickly from 
the crowd, she walked rapidly in the direc- 
tion of Peppina’s garden. She resolved to 
seek protection from her old relation, and 
which she felt so firmly convinced would 
be readily accorded to her, that she formed 
many airy projects of unexampled good be- 
havior and of never-ending gratitude. 

“ I will learn to work,” she soliloquised, 
whilst bounding across the fields, “ and so 
repay my aunt the cost she will be put to 
for my subsistence. I will be her servant, 
her very slave. I will overcome the repug- 
nance with which she inspires me, and all I 
ask of Heaven is the calm of a hard-work- 
ing, virtuous life, and the fresh and gorgeous 
sun, common to the poorest peasant, when 
I shall have finished my daily toil.” 

But notwithstanding these excellent reso- 
lutions, and her confidence in the reception 
she would meet with from her relation, 
Giuditta felt her heart sick within her when 
she saw the vine-colored walls of the poor 
hut, the branches of a large plane-tree wav- 
ing gently in the breeze, and the orange and 
lemon trees that grew on every side. Shak- 
ing oflf the doubt that had unwillingly arisen, 
the girl inhaled the perfume of the shrubs ; 
and, shut up for weeks as she had been in 
the dark, close atmosphere of a wretched 
garret, rejoiced in the free, balmy air of 
heaven that breathed upon her cheek. Her 
guileless heart was so full of all the misery 
she had endured, so grateful by anticipation 
for the refuge she should find, and which 
would secure her forever from Beppo, Bea- 
trice, and their associates, that when she 
saw Peppina she sprang forward, and would 
have thrown herself into the old crone’s 
arms. 

Unfortunately the moment of Giuditta’s 
arrival was peculiarly inopportune, for her 
great-aunt was seated before the door, en- 
joying her supper with selfish sensuality, 
and the interruption of this agreeable occu- 
pation seriously annoyed her. 

“ Gently, gently, child!” she said, even 
more shrewishly than was her wont : “ what 
do you want here, and what do all these 
fool’s kisses mean? Has your thieving 
mother resolved at last to pay me what she 
owes me, for keeping you so long ? If you 


26 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


have brought me the money give it to me, 
and leave otf this nonsense ; and if not, let 
me see your back at once.” 

Giuditta did not reply ; this cruel repulse 
had destroyed all her cherished hopes, and, 
shrinking back, she gave way to a paroxysm 
of hot tears. 

“Well, stupid creature! well!” quoth 
the beldame, working herself into a rage ; 
“ what’s the reason of all this to-do ? Speak,” 
she shouted, brandishing the earthen pot 
that contained her maccaroni, “ or I’ll teach 
you to come here again on your stupid er- 
rands.” 

The poor girl clasped her hands together 
in the attitude of entreaty, as she meekly 
replied ; 

“ Do not be angry with me, aunt, for I am 
miserable indeed, and have no one on earth 
but you to fly to for an asylum ; for the love 
of the Holy Virgin de los Dolores do not 
drive me from you!” 

“Ah! ha! minion, I see how it stands 
with you ; you have been committing some 
abominable mischief, and they have turned 
you out of doors, and now you come here 
with your hypocrisy, and try to wheedle 
and deceive your poor old aunt. And so 
you think that I will take you in again, and 
keep you here in idleness, lying about and 
basking in the sun, or gadding over the 
fields all day. No, no, don’t you think it, 
hussy, you have plenty of means of earning 
a subsistence if you’re not too lazy to look 
after it. I’ve lieard hundreds of singers in 
the streets who can’t quaver and chant half 
as well as you can, and the artists in the 
studios will be sure to be running after you 
to paint your pretty face. As for stopping 
with me, pray don’t think it, for I’ll none 
of you !” 

“Aunt, aunt,” the broken-hearted creature 
sobbed, detaining the old woman by her 
rags, “you are wrong, indeed you are, — I 
have not been driven forth, but ” 

“ Bah ! but what ?” 

“ My poor mother ” 

“What of her?” 

“ She is dead !” 

The poor girl could speak no more, for 
her sobs choked the utterance of her tongue, 
but her deadly grief made no impression on 
the old hag’s stony heart. 

“Dead!” she cried, with a derisive 
chuckle, “ and a good thing too ! She must 
have left you a large sum of money, for the 
good woman has made more crowns in her 
time than there were hairs upon her head, 
and it is impossible she can have got rid of 
all of them. If that’s the case you can stop 
here — at your own expense, mind you ! — 
you shall have your old room, and I’ll only 
charge you four ducats a month, and that’s 
not much for an heiress. Come, quick, tell 
me what she has left you.” 

The girl made a gigantic effort and gulped 


down a sob that rent her breast. She lifted 
up her extended arms to Heaven, as if she 
would invoke its vengeance against Jier piti- 
less relation, then she slowly and distinctly 
uttered : “ My mother perished for want 
of food !” shook the dust from her feet, and 
without casting another glance upon her 
cruel aunt, turned upon her heel, and walked 
majestically towards the town. 

Peppina looked steadfastly after her, with 
a regard in which it was hard to say whether 
hatred or envy predominated. 

“ What has the fool to murmur at?” .she 
said at last : “ she is young and beautiful, 
and can be wealthy any hour that she 
chooses.” 

That night the unhappy orphan, who had 
eaten nothing all daylong, reposed upon the 
cold hard steps of the L-ucchesini palace. 


CHAPTER X. 

When Fernand d’Arville returned to 
Paris it was the dull season of the year, a 
period at which the fashionable ones are 
out of town ; so that he had time to take 
and furnish a small suite of convenient 
apartments, to renew his wardrobe, and 
purchase a couple of English horses, before 
the general opening of the closed blinds of 
the mansions of the rich — and the would- 
be so — announced the return of those happy 
individuals who had been to the sea-side, or 
the baths ; and of those gentry, who, from 
a deficiency in the exchequer, had been 
compelled “ to travel round the room” until 
the time arrived when they could show their 
faces without running the risk of being ex- 
pelled from the circles which the untlii lik- 
ing world conventionally styles “ the great.” 

In this partial interregnum, Henri d’Ore- 
mont, another attache to the embassy at 
Berlin whilst Fernand was there, had done 
his friend a service common enough in 
Paris, namely, to introduce him to a lady 
he liad just forsaken, a certain Madame Los- 
tanges, who, although she could count 
thirty years, had she been so disposed, was 
still the lioness par excellence, of the good 
folks constituting what was called “ the so- 
ciety of the Chaussee d’Antin.” 

She was the daughter of a barrister, and 
the wife of a respectable gentleman upon 
the stock -exchange, and, without being ei- 
ther rich, or elegant, or clever, thanks to 
her excellent stock of health, her easy tem- 
per, and her pretty face, she occupied a tol- 
erably prominent position in the second 
rank of the aforesaid “ world,” and was 
much sought after in the circle where she 
lived. At races, pic-nics, or any description 
of pleasure parties, she was worth her 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


27 


weight in gold : she was never tired and 
never out of spirits, — her light but well-knit 
figure disdained the use of stays, — her rosy 
complexion defied the impertinencies of the 
summer sun, — and her tiny feet, well-set 
upon the ankles, laughed at the revelations 
of the gusty wind. Always dressed with 
the most perfect taste, yet apparently at- 
taching no importance to it, she could see 
her exquisite lace trimmings torn to pieces 
without one passing sigh ; sure of her own 
attractions, she could afibrd to be indulgent 
to her rivals, and she always managed to 
be surrounded by a crowd of languishing 
adorers, without encouraging any partic- 
ular person to the exclusion of the rest. 

Fernand accounted her good looking, and 
a very good sort of woman, although a little 
common, a defect which arose from the 
exuberance of her careless gaiety — in short, 
an agreeable plaything for the winter he 
was about to pass in Paris. She seemed too 
busily engaged in a multitude of intrigues 
of every sort to exact too much of his atten- 
tion, and too confident of her personal ad- 
vantages to be jealous ; and thus a liaison 
with such a woman might form a little in- 
teresting episode in his life, without his in- 
curring the danger of becoming seriously 
attached. But after some time spent in ce- 
menting his so-called friendship, Fernand 
discovered that the part of cicisheo to the 
Belle Lostanges was not to be performed so 
easily as he had at first imagined, and that 
easiness of temper, on which he had reckon- 
oned to exempt him from an infinity of re- 
quests, became the instrument of his inflic- 
tions. How, indeed, could he refuse a de- 
mand made with so sweet a smile,^ or seek 
a quarrel with a woman blessed with such 
imperturbable good-humor? 

Gabrielle Lostanges had a most intimate 
female friend— (what Parisian lady was 
ever without one?) — a confidant, one who 
was acquainted with all her secrets — except 
those she managed to conceal from her — 
who always called her by her Christian 
name, repeated to her all the annoying re- 
marks that were made upon her in society, 
told her her nose was red whenever she 
thought it was looking particularly well, 
and that she was delightful when she did 
not appear to her usual advantage; who, 
moreover, entertained a coterie of her own 
with interminable dissertations on the moral 
and physical imperfections of her devoted 
friend, and freely employed all the privileges 
of an ill-natured confidant. 

This lady— named the Baroness Dufossee 
— was about eight years older than Ga- 
brielle, although she was in the habit of as- 
serting that they were of precisely the same 
age. She had been pretty, was extremely 
rich, and wore more bracelets, rings, laces, 
ribands, and feathers than any one in Paris ; 
and she was clever, bold, and even insolent. 


Disliked, feared, and avoided by the gener- 
ality of the women in the circles wherein 
she moved, she found Madame Lostanges a 
very convenient companion, for Gabrielle’s 
beauty served to attract the men, and her 
own tact and intelligence sufficed to retain 
them, although, perhaps, she would not have 
willingly avowed that the graces of her own 
exterior needed aid. 

Gabrielle’s thoughtless character had been 
a subject of great annoyance to the Baroness 
as well as to Fernand, inasmuch as it con- 
stantly defeated the pleasure she anticipated 
from some malicious sally. When she en- 
tered into a cutting detail of how the world 
blamed the lightness of Gabrielle’s behavior, 
or stated tliat such and such noble ladies 
had announced their intention of declining 
to receive her more, Madame de Lostanges 
would content herself with smiling, thereby 
showing two rows of the whitest teeth in 
the world ; if she observed that her dear 
friend did not look at all well that evening, 
the latter would reply, with another simper, 
that she did not care so long as she could 
find a partner to dance with ; and even if 
she went to the length of pointing out that 
one of Gabrielle’s adorers was making strong 
love to another woman, she would survey 
her rival through her glass, and calmly ad- 
mire her recreant lover’s taste. It was real- 
ly disheartening to throw away so much 
disinterested friendship, but at the very mo- 
ment that the Baroness Dufossee was about 
to give up this amiable amusement in de- 
spair, Fernand d’Arville appeared upon the 
scene, and Cecile’s practised eye discerned 
his real indifference beneath the veil of sim- 
ulated gallantry in which he had enveloped 
it, and also Gabrielle’s admiration of him, 
concealed beneath her useful impassibility. 

Now, in Paris, one of the most imperative 
duties of a confidant is to play the coquette 
with her dear friend’s lover, and the evident 
pain the task inflicted upon Gabrielle render- 
ed it especially attractive to Cecile. What a 
triumph it was to barb the dart, to find out 
the sore spot, and plunge the dagger ruth- 
lessly within it! — to see her friend grow 
paler day by day and her eyelids become 
swollen and inflamed, as if she had been 
shedding bitter tears ! 

The excellent Baroness waxed sensibly 
younger in the agreeable exercise of this 
friendly love, and whilst Gabrielle was losing 
her attractions one by one, Cecile would 
laugh and chat, and persuade her dear friend 
that she was exerting herself to the utmost 
to amuse Fernand, and prevent his observ- 
ing Gabrielle’s defects, and going elsewhere 
for amusement. Poor Madame Lostanges, 
who hitherto had seen only the sunny side 
of life, and was essentially good-natured, 
could not reply to these piquant sallies of 
Madame Dufossee ; she did not possess suffi- 
cient wit or malice to compete successfully 


28 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


in the bitter strife, neither could she make 
sentimental phrases for Fernand d’Arville’s 
ears — nor even weep in a well-got-up, fas- 
cinating manner. Her’s w^as a fair-weather 
disposition, unfitted for the wordly storms 
of good society, so she opposed nothing but 
melancholy smiles to her friend’s attacks — 
which she did not always understand — and 
fixed her large dark eyes incessantly upon 
Fernand, 

One evening the two inseparables, escort- 
ed by Fernand and a fresh young lion of the 
season — the Viscount de Parabere — went to 
the Opera, to see the first representation of 
a new piece. The Baroness, attired in the 
most eccentric fashion, had concentrated all 
the prismatic colors on her person ; she was 
crowned, as it were, with a tocque of singu- 
lar, outrageous form, adorned with lace and 
diamonds; whilst Gabrielle, who by no 
means contemned the pleasures of the table, 
had recovered her accustomed gaiety under 
the influence of a sumptuous repast, added 
to a full dose of adulation by the Viscount, 
and, with her shawl thrown back, triumph- 
antly displayed the handsomest shoulders in 
all Paris. 

The lionesses entered a centre box, with a 
noise intended to draw attention to them, 
amidst the smothered reprehensions of the 
real amateurs of music ; and, after an inter- 
minable arrangement of shawls, and seats, 
and stools, established themselves according 
to their fancy, to the infinite relief of the 
audience, who sighed for a little calm. But 
Gabrielle had discovered that Augustus de 
Parabere was extremely good-looking, and 
by no means insensible to the whiteness of 
her splendid shoulders; the young exquisite, 
moreover, had had the politeness to laugh 
at some ponderous jokes she had indulged 
in at dinner, and which had elicited some 
gestures of disapproval from Fernand; these 
she had placed to the account of jealousy, 
and now, feeling disposed to push her ad- 
vantage to the utmost, she conversed in a 
loud tone w'ith her new admirer, notwith- 
standing the outcries from the pit ; whilst 
the Baroness, delighted at being seen in pub- 
lic with the fashionable poet of the hour, 
took good care to parade her intimacy with 
him. Fernand sat upon thorns, and was 
seeking an excuse to escape from the mar- 
tyrdom he was enduring, when the entrance 
of a party into a box fronting him drew his 
eyes involuntarily towards the spot, and he 
was immediately lost to all that w\as going 
on around him. One of the new arrivals 
was a lady of that age which is known by 
the appellation — certain^ and another was a 
girl, dressed simply, but with undoubted 
taste, and in such a manner as to set-off all 
the graces of her extremely juvenile appear- 
ance, her almost infantile face, and her fault- 
less, sylph-like form. 

“Is she not lovely, adorable?” Augustus 


de Parabere rapturously exclaimed, as he 
fixed his opera-glass upon the younger 
lady. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Feenand d’Aeville was too much ab- 
sorbed in contemplating the ethereal vision 
to hear the question addressed to him. He 
thought he could not be deceived : he be- 
held before him the realization of his dreams, 
all that his poetical imagination had ever 
painted of beauty and of grace — the celes- 
tial apparition he had seen only for a mo- 
ment at Berlin ! He dared not turn his eyes 
from her for a single instant, lest she should 
vanish into thin air a second time, and leave 
his heart desolate and dark indeed without 
her. 

The charming object of this mute admira- 
tion appeared to be above the middle height, 
but her form was fragile and bending as a 
reed ; her hair was of a pale golden color, 
and fell in long waving tresses upon her 
shoulders and exquisitely moulded bust; 
her almond-shaped eyes were of a clear, 
heavenly blue, and the other features of her 
countenance were of the Grecian type, al- 
though a hypercritical observer might have 
suggested that the mouth was wanting in 
that roundness which is thought to denote 
frankness and openness of character. 

But what young man could have observed 
this slight defect amidst such an accumula- 
tion of divine attractions? Her slightly- 
parted lips disclosed two rows of pearls ; 
her complexion had all the transparent 
beauty of the Provence rose, harmonising 
completely with her features ; but that 
which struck Fernand the most — painter 
and poet as he was — was the rare perfection 
of that hand on which her head reposed ; 
for the fairy fingers, tipped with rosy nails 
and polished as the sea-shell newly taken 
from its bed, seemed made alone to cull the 
fairest flowers that grow upon this earth. 

The young girl, on her part, did not deem 
Fernand altogether unworthy of attention, 
for when his enraptured eyes, rising from 
the contour of her exquisitelj'-shaped arm 
to the shoulders, rested on her swan-like 
neck, as it moved gently to and fro in un- 
dulating curves, he found a scrutinizing look 
fixed firmly on himself. The eftect this un- 
expected meeting produced upon him was 
like that of an electric shock ; the look she 
cast upon him was not to be mistaken, it 
belonged to only one woman in the universe 
— the Egeria of his dreams I And yet, 
strange to say, a sentiment unlike that of 
satisfaction mingled with the fulness of his 
joy at meeting her again; it seemed singu- 
lar and ominous that this rare creature 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


29 


sLould evoke a feeling of mournful ness and 
of distrust, and yet this feeling was distinct 
in every phase ; it seemed to him as if a 
glimmering of future evil in connection with 
her was borne in upon his mind ; a vague, 
indefinite sense of apprehension took pos- 
session of him, and whispered prudence and 
reserve. 

“ What, Eernand 1” Augustus de Parab^re 
cried gaily ; “ it seems, cold and cautious as 
you are, that you are lost in admiration, 
and, like other imprudent moths, are about 
to singe your wings in the fire of this bril- 
liant will-o’-the-wisp. Know you not, un- 
happy man ! that one glance from the bright 
eyes of the beauteous Yalerie enchains a 
poor fellow in enduring bondage, — that she 
is in the liabit of enchanting every fresh 
man who comes upon the town, and when 
she has him fast he may go hang, drown 
himself, or blow his brains out, as he lists ? 
Take my advice, my dear friend, and make 
your will as soon as you get home, for she 
has had her eyes upon you at least two 
seconds longer than she fixed them upon 

Ernest de B , and he was a dead man 

within a week.” 

“Valerie!” Fernand ejaculated uncon- 
sciously, for he had not comprehended one 
syllable of this rambling tirade ; “did you 
say her name was Yalerie ?” but, before the 
dandy could reply, the Baroness, furious at 
seeing d’Arville occupied with any other 
woman than herself, cried out, in her sharp- 
est and most contemptuous key : 

“Yalerie! a pretty name for a romance, 

) upon my word ! Yalerie de Marignan, only 
daughter of the Duke de Marignan- Orecy, — 
the pretty doll who has been for a long time 
in search of a model husband, gifted with 
all the virtues painted on a lying epitaph, 
with a noble name and an immense fortune, 
if such a phoenix can be found and hooked. 
To suit the young lady’s own particular 
taste the future unknown must be handsome, 
young, and clever ; and, to please her aris- 
tocratic father, he must be of the pure legiti- 
mate blood, and make a yearly pilgrimage 
to the exiled Bourbons, residing at Gratz. 
You will perceive, M. d’Arville, that as you 
are attached to one of the Ministers of the 
present day you have not a chance.” 

“ A lady so beautiful as Mademoiselle is,” 
Fernand replied, although secretly a little 
piqued, “ has a right to be difiicult in her 
choice ; as for me, I hold myself too insig- 
nificant for such a treasure.” 

“And yet, my dear fellow,” De Parabere 
broke in, “this game of hesitation in the 
selection of a mate is very often a difficult 
and dangerous one to play. Yalerie has 
but little money ; her father is the most 
stupid teazing dotard in all France and 
Navarre to boot; and, between you and 
me, the beauty herself is none of the very 
youngest. She has been out for eight years 


at the least, and you know, as well as I do, 
that in Paris a woman of twenty-four years 
of age is rather an old girl. Besides, there 
are some prejudices in the highest circles 
respecting her, on account of the deuce 
knows what stories about her mother ; and 
although Madame de Marignan left Paris 
after her divorce, and is said to be dead 
long since, some trivial indiscretions of her 
life have thrown a sombre tint upon her 
daughter. I also shrewdly suspect that her 
malevolent witch of a grandmother on her 
father’s side, who hated her mother cor- 
dially, has propagated these rumors as viru- 
lently as she could ; and now, my dear 
fellow, having told you all that I know 
about the fairy Yalerie, it is high time that 
I should pay my devotions to her.” Thus 
saying, the exquisite bowed to the ladies, 
and left the box. 

The light bantering tone in which De- 
Parabfere had spoken went like a cold chill 
to Fernand’s heart; so true it is that the 
admiration of a finished man of the world 
is easily influenced by the opinions of other 
men. Yalerie — no longer an ethereal girl, 
but a matured woman — the daughter of a 
parent degraded by misconduct, if not by 
actual crime — had lost one-half her charms ; 
and yet, as he gazed upon her radiant, un- 
earthly beauty, it seemed to give the lie to 
every word spoken to her disparagement by 
envious tongues. 

Whilst Fernand remained thus entranced 
the Baroness rattled on, without his paying 
the least attention to, or even hearing her ; 
but presently two or three sharp taps from 
a fan recalled him to recollection, and turn- 
ing round he saw Madame Lostanges look- 
ing at him with anger and jealousy sparkling 
in her eyes. In his then mood, — irretriev- 
ably in love as he felt himself with 
Yalerie, — he beheld Gabrielle’s threatening 
brow with the most lively pleasure, and 
gladly hailed the coming storm, on which 
he saw he could found a quarrel, and so 
once more be free. 

“ It must be acknowledged, Sir,” Madame 
Lostanges remarked, in an agitation she 
vainly attempted to conceal — “ it must be 
acknowledged that your reveries are not 
peculiarly flattering to us two : you have 
not addressed four words to us for the last 
half-hour, and all your attentions are paid 
to that pale, faded beauty opposite, who is 
giving herself all sorts of airs in order to 
attract attention.” 

“Do you count the mystery that attaches 
to an unknown — the charm of novelty — as 
nothing?” the Baroness added, experiencing 
at that moment the greatest delight at the 
indifference shown by the ungrateful D’Ar- 
ville to her dear friend ; “ besides,” she con- 
tinued, revelling, as the tempest gathered 
strength, and threatened to burst forth, 
“ you, my dearest Gabrielle, who are so 


30 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


madly fond of all that is beautiful upon 
earth, and are so superior to the envious 
prejudices of the generality of our sex, can- 
not find fault with M. d’Arville giving us a 
specimen of his good taste.” 

During the short period this scene was 
being played, the Viscount de Parab^re was 
seated in Madame de Marignan’s box, and 
was replying to the questions Valerie asked 
him respecting his friend Fernand, informing 
her as fully and impressively as he could of 
the liaison existing between D’Arville and 
Gabrielle Lostanges. The fair Valerie heard 
him in complete silence, but when he had 
finished a smile of singular meaning passed 
across her lips, and decided D’Arville’s fate ; 
again her eyes wandered slowly round the 
house till they were fixed for one other in- 
stant on him, and the chains that had bound 
him to the blooming Gabrielle were snapped 
like reeds. 

When Augustus de Parabere left the 
Duchess’s box Valerie remained immovable 
as a monumental statue, with her head rest- 
ing on her hand, and her languid orbs 
dwelling with the serpent’s fascinating gaze 
upon the young man’s countenance; he, 
with downcast eyes and trembling limbs, 
felt the electric magic thrilling through his 
frame ; the very air that passed in heavy 
respirations through his chest seemed filled 
with voluptuous emanations, and his admi- 
ration, which till then had only dreamed of 
the most aery idealisms, assumed a less 
Platonic style. 

For some time his vanquished soul strug- 
gled to resist the spell, but finding it was too 
powerful for him he rose to leave the box, 
and shun the dangerous seduction that held 
his reason prisoner : but another scene 
awaited him with Gabrielle Lostanges. Not 
one burning look or smothered sigh had 
been lost upon her jealous body ; for though 
she was not gifted with the most acute per- 
ceptions, she possessed the natural instinct 
of all women who are in love, and feel that 
the sceptre of their empire is passing from 
their hands. Poor Gabrielle was born to 
sail upon a stormless sea ; she was a butter- 
fly, wafted by the gentle summer breeze 
from flower to flower, in the bright rays of 
the gorgeous sun ; her careless gaiety was 
her chiefest charm, and her power consisted 
in the lightness of her unfelt chains. She 
was a coquette, and had never loved ; but 
every woman has her hours of bondage, — 
the most inconstant will meet her victor, the 
most imperious, one who will subdue her to 
his will, and the heart of steel will still en- 
counter the overwhelming power /that shall 
shiver it to pieces. 

Such is the wondrous constitution of the 
female heart, that probably it was Fernand’s 
indifference to Gabrielle — for she recked not 
of his lip-service and the homage of his 
eyes — that bound her to him in preference 


to any other man, although she felt but 
little sure of his adherence, and knew that 
every time he quitted her, notwithstanding 
the tenderness and grace he threw into his 
adieus, it was a hundred to one that she 
might never see him more ; possibly it was 
Fernand’s indifference to her charms, her 
want of trustfulness in the future happy 
prospects of her love, that had created a 
feeling hitherto a stranger to her heart. 

Let us not attempt to dive too deeply 
into the secrets of the human breast; it 
would be indeed a task of incomparable dif- 
ficulty to separate the precious ore from 
the alloy, the glittering jewels from the dull 
earth that surrounds them. All that can be 
said in favor of poor Gabrielle is, that she 
did more upon Fernand’s account than ever 
she had done for man — she wept ! — ^}’es, ac- 
tually wept! — although by so doing she 
exposed herself to the merciless sarcasms of 
her best friend, the Baroness Dufossee. Un- 
der the impression that d’Arville’s coldness to 
her arose from jealousy, she had dismissed 
several of her admirers, returned bouquets 
of flowers, and refused boxes at the Opera; 
she had remained for hours behind the Ve- 
netian blinds of her boudoir, watching for his 
arrival, and if he did not come — which was 
frequently the case — she would not dress 
for any ball, but gave way to despair and 
went to bed. Could there be any stronger 
proofs to Gabrielle that she was desperately 
in love ? 

Madame Lostanges had observed the long 
look of ecstasy that Fernand had fixed on 
Valerie de Marignan, she had remarked his 
ill-dissembled rage at the observations Au- 
gustus de Parabere had made respecting 
the young lady, and his excessive agitation 
when Valerie’s eyes were fixed upon him. 
The sudden haste with which lie rose to 
quit the box, impressed Gabrielle with the 
idea that he was about to throw himself in 
her rival’s way, and she felt that if he once 
left her side her hold was gone for ever. 

Fernand was putting on his cloak, and 
taking his farewell of Madame Dufossee in a 
well-turned compliment, when he felt a hand 
upon his arm ; the hand was light in itself, 
and at another moment would have weighed 
as a feather in the scale ; but now it weigh- 
ed like lead, for it was the hand of a master 
restraining his bond-slave from flight. In 
the presence of the Baroness and the Vis- 
count de Parabere, Fernand could not pos- 
sibly refuse the mute appeal without being 
guilty of unpardonable rudeness to a lady ; 
cursing in his heart the fatuity that detained 
him, he coined some common compliment 
to mask his intended departure, and, throw- 
ing a hasty glance into Valerie’s box as he 
resumed his seat, had the mortification of 
perceiving that she appeared quite diverted 
with the pantomime that had been going on 
in his own, and he thought he saw a slight 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


31 


smile of disdain upon her rosy lips. At that 
moment he hated the luckless, love-lorn 
Gabrielle so intensely that he could have 
trampled her beneath his feet. 

The total impossibility of insulting a lady 
in a public place, and the fear of a painful 
scene, had caused Fernand to accede in- 
stantly to Gabrielle’s wishes ; he reseated 
himself so calmly that, as she seldom saw 
beneath the surface, she had no suspicion of 
the angry volcano that was boiling in his 
breast : she was completely satisfied with 
the success of her manoeuvre, and launched 
some scornful looks at Valerie, which only 
tended to increase Fernand’s resentment. 
As for him, he appeared absorbed in the 
contemplation of the premiere danseuse^ 
whilst Gabrielle — in the renewal of her hap- 
piness and total ignorance of the true state 
of affairs — gave way to her natural gaiety, 
heedless of the sarcastic observations of her 
far-seeing friend. 

Towards the conclusion of the ballet 
Valerie left her box, without bestowing a 
look upon Fernand. Had he been alone he 
would have hastened on her steps, in the 
hope of possibly touching her dress among 
the crowd, but even that felicity was denied 
him, for he was chained like a martyr to the 
post. When the fall of the curtain delivered 
this prisoner of love, and the ladies rose to 
withdraw, Madame Lostanges seized Fer- 
nand’s arm with a conquering air, and passed 
along the corridor with such an evident 
parading of her prize that the young man 
became highly irritated, champed furiously 
upon the bit that held him, and waited anx- 
iously for an opportunity of breaking from 
the rein. 

The moment came at last : the Baroness’s 
carriage drove up first, — she entered it, 
kissed her hand by way of farewell to the 
lovers^ and left them standing under the 
colonnade. Fernand was pale with rage, 
and, as he maintained a rigid silence, fear 
began to enter into Gabrielle’s heart : 
the smile that was stereotyped upon her 
lips in company gradually disappeared, and 
as she lifted her eyes to his her face assumed 
an expression utterly at variance with its 
usual joyous carelessness, — an expression of* 
piteous supplication. Her taper fingers 
trembled convulsively as she pressed his 
arm, that shook nervously with rage, and 
she gazed in the countenance that looked 
steadfastly into vacuity before him, — not 
that he feared her influence, but that he 
dreaded lest his passion should explode be- 
fore he should have seen her home. 

The tenderness, the despair, the rage of 
the forsaken and the jealous, become 
powerless before indifference, — that apo- 
thegm is known to all mankind ; and yet 
who can blame a fond woman, in her hours 
of anguish, for employing every means of 
luring back her truant swain ? 


“ Dearest Fernand,” Gabrielle murmured, 
in a voice broken by the sobs she partially 
suppressed, but with the utmost difficulty : 
“speak one word to me,— only one little 
word.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, Madame!” he re- 
plied curtly, “ spare me the annoyance of a 
public scene, you have made me ridiculous 
enough already this evening ; but, by all 
that’s beautiful, you did well to use the 
privilege of your sex, for assuredly it has 
been for the last time !” 

At that moment the carriage was driven 
up, Fernand handed Madame Lostanges in, 
sprang after her impetuously, and no sooner 
was he seated than the long-lowering storm 
burst out. His lips, which but a few minutes 
previous had involuntarily uttered exclama- 
tions of the softest love, now trembled with 
the fiercest rage ; the illusions in which the 
confiding woman had wrapped herself were 
rudely, mercilessly dispelled ; the past, that 
god which ought to reign supreme within 
the heart, was shaken from his throne and 
hurled to earth, despised, .profaned ; the 
present was a cheerless blank ; and a future 
of love, or even of esteem, was rendered 
totally impossible. Fernand’s anger as- 
sumed the character of ungovernable fury; 
it broke forth with the impetuosity of a 
torrent, but passed away with equal rapid- 
ity ; and when the carriage arrived at the 
lady’s residence his fury had subsided into 
comparative tranquillity. Poor Gabrielle 
had steeped her pocket-handkerchief in 
tears, but, when the carriage stopped, she 
recollected that the Viscount de Parab^re 
had promised to call upon her the following 
morning ; and, as she did not wish to ap- 
pear a perfect fright under any circum- 
stances, however deplorable they might be, 
like a true Parisian woman she resolved not 
to impair the brightness of her eyes by 
giving way to grief. 

Just as she came to this philosophical de- 
termination, Fernand began to think that he 
might have gone too far, and that it was 
possible his inamorata might commit some 
fatal act in the depths of her despair ; with 
this impression he took his leave of her 
with more emotion than he had intended, 
whilst she held out her hand without the 
slightest animosity, and said “ good night,” 
without uttering one reproachful word. 

Fernand looked after her with perfect as- 
tonishment as she walked up the stairs — the 
steadiness of her gait, and the tranquillity 
of her accents frightened him : might it not 
be the terrible coolness of despair, emana- 
ting from the prospective contemplation of 
a frightful deed ? Fernand thought he had 
pressed too hardly on her, and he passed a 
restless, sleepless night, watching for the 
dawn to allay his sinister suspicions. 

As for Gabrielle, she adopted a sensible 
line of conduct ; she drank a few drops of 


32 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


orange-flower water in order to compose 
herself, went quietly to bed, and slept peace- 
fully until the morning, so that when the 
Viscount paid his expected visit he found 
her rather paler than usual,, but, as he whis- 
pered, far more interesting. Madame Los- 
tanges, on her part, was thunderstruck that, 
up till then, she had not remarked how very 
handsome the young Viscount was, and 
from that moment he was deemed worthy 
to succeed Fernand. Acting upon this con- 
viction she maintained her dignity intact; 
did not write one line to the ungrateful poet, 
with the view to bring him back, and com- 
forted herself with her new admirer, as if 
no such man as D’Arville had ever been. 

Of a surety Gabrielle had not loved ! The 
pride of a wounded bleeding heart, — the 
majestic dignity of the highest-minded wo- 
man, — the noblest motives and resolves, — 
are dashed to pieces against the rocks of 
passionate love, as the foaming billows are 
broken on the shore. The haughtiest of the 
earth will bow meekly in the dust whilst 
seeking for the heavenly charity of a word 
or look, aid the greatest will even joy in 
the excess of their abasement ! 


CHAPTER XII. 

Fernand rejoiced when he found himself 
once more free. Liberty ! word full of dan- 
gerous mysteries, what is thy signification ? 
Art thou an anathema or a benediction, a 
gushing source of inexhaustible joys or a 
poisonous plant which our own hands have 
sown ? 

Alas! with what ardor did we sigh for 
thee in our impetuous youth ! We thirsted 
for the enjoyments which thou didst offer 
to us with bounteous hands, and cursed the 
friendly voices which endeavored to restrain 
us. Years have passed over our heads, and 
perhaps the desire of our heart has been 
fulfilled ; the bonds which fettered us have 
been broken ; we can gratify all our inclina- 
tions, without having to fear the shadow of 
a reproach, the echo of a warning. But 
what comes afterwards ? 

Afterwards 1 — the shade of the picture, 
the reverse of the medal, the after-taste of 
the cup, bitterness after enjoyment. The 
heart empty, — the hearth deserted, — alone 
to live, alone to die, and after death not a 
single friendly voice to pray to God for our 
souls 1 

But Fernand thought not of the future ; 
he was free, ready to embark in quest of new 
adventures, all his sails set. 

Doubtless he would have been sadly 
grieved had Gabrielle destroyed herself on 
his account; nevertheless, while taking his 


coffee the day after the quarrel of which 
Madame Lostanges had been the victim, he 
was very much surprised, and — it must be 
confessed — even somewhat piqued at not 
receiving a note full of reproaches, entreat- 
ies, and despair. 

Every Parisian lion has at least half-a- 
dozen intimate friends to whom he relates, 
generally more than once, his intrigues, suc- 
cessful or unsuccessful, in all their most 
minute details. It is well understood that 
these confidences are secrets intrusted to 
the discretion of best friends ; there is al- 
ways a preparatory ceremony at which the 
most profound secrecy is required, promised, 
and agreed to. But these confidants know 
very well by experience that they would 
run the risk of losing their occupation if 
they did not publish, as speedily as possible, 
and always under the promise of secrecy, 
the racy anecdote with which they have 
just been made acquainted. 

Remember this, you graceful daughters 
of Albion, whom wind and steam bring in 
such numbers to our shores. These amiable 
traitors will swear to you, by your golden 
locks and deep blue eyes, that the secret of 
your charming weaknesses is destined to 
die with them. Don’t believe a word of it ! 
and when at length you may find discretion, 
silence, and mystery, — alas ! consult your 
mirror, and tremble! you will there per- 
ceive the sad and humiliating explanation. 

Some of Fernand’s numerous friends 
came to smoke a cigar with him at break- 
fast, and he did not fail to inform them of 
the particulars of his falling out with Mad- 
ame Lostanges. He otfered them cutlets 
and champagne, and they, not to be be- 
hindhand in politeness, eagerly pressed 
D’Arville to confide to them the cause of 
this quarrel, in which indeed they were 
but slightly interested. 

Fernand would not for the world have 
named Valerie. The impression which she 
had made upon him was too real, too pro- 
found, for him to consent to the risk of 
hearing it lightly spoken of. While he con- 
fessed that he was smitten by a woman 
whom he only knew by sight, he preserved 
a strict silence on every point which might 
lead his guests to suspect who she was. 
His good friends, astonished at this unusual 
amount of discretion, but delighted with a 
reserve which spared them the trouble of 
condolence, speedily took their departure, 
and hurried off to relate what they knew at 
the Jockey Club. 

Valerie de Marignan heard this story at 
one of her grand-mother’s the Dowager- 
Duchess’s solemn reunions ; although her 
delicately tinged cheeks did not deepen in 
color, yet she considered it necessary to 
bend rather more closely over her em- 
broidery, as her heart beat faster than it 
had done since the day when she heard that 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


33 


Ernest B— had destroyed himself for her 
love. 

She was a strange person, this Yalerie : 
whimsical, without imagination, — amusing, 
without wit, — mischievous, with a cold 
heart and understanding. She had caught 
a glimpse of Fernand at Berlin, his beauty 
had attracted her notice for an instant, and 
then she had forgotten him to follow some 
new caprice. When the work of the young 
poet appeared, those pages full of disen- 
chantment and bitter sarcasms against life, 
in which woman was treated as a play- 
thing, and love as a chimera, appeared to 
her as a challenge which she ought to ac- 
cept for the honor of her sex and her own 
power. She vowed that this poet — who 
pretended to be so llase^ so independent, so 
careless of everything — should prostrate 
himself as a slave at her feet. He had seen 
her, he had observed her, she had deigned 
to cast her eyes on him, and he dared to 
deny her charms by braving love ! This 
was more than defiance, it was insult ! She 
took up the glove, and the duel commenced 
by the letters which so easily revolu- 
tionized the whole existence of the young 
poet. Besides the seductions of talent and 
personal charms, Fernand, since his arrival 
in Paris, offered a further allurement to the 
coquettish Yalerie: he was beloved by an- 
other woman. How many successes, in- 
comprehensible even to him who is the 
hero of them, are explained by this single 
fact ! 

Yalerie, although apparently destined to 
remain what the world has agreed to call a 
virtuous woman, was born with all the in- 
stincts of vice, and gifted with the full 
power of penetration and seduction which 
those instincts supply. She had read Fer- 
nand’s less noble thoughts, written on his 
countenance as in an open book. At a 
single glance she had comprehended that 
nature which he so simply believed im- 
penetrable : his vanity, his egotism, his 
ardor of imagination, his aridity of heart, — 
she had guessed all, and understood all; 
she felt that what he pursued was unattaina- 
ble, and what he possessed lost all its value. 
And yet she was not a superior woman, 
gifted with a true spirit of observation, 
and capable of understanding the inspira- 
tions of that fiery soul towards ideal good. 
She only seized the least noble part of Fer- 
nand’s character, that which had some rela- 
tion with her own, although this species of 
analogy was produced by widely different 
causes. She loved difficulties and obstacles, 
in order to subdue them under the sceptre 
of her coquetry. The heart which offered 
itself to her lost its value, whilst that which 
only surrendered after an obstinate struggle 
doubled its price in her eyes. 

In Fernand, this attraction for the im- 
possible did not arise from the desire of 

o 


making conquests, a weak vanity unworthy 
of a man, but from tlie need which he felt 
in himself to idealize and deify the woman 
whom he loved. The details of an ordinary 
liaison, with its prosaic arrangements, its 
petty calculations, and its innumerable lies, 
were repugnant to the delicacy of his im- 
pressions ; whilst the impetuosity of his 
youthful passions demanded with ardor and 
perseverance the realities which were sure 
to disenchant him. 

The Princess de Tallemant, who was with 
Yalerie the evening on which Fernand saw 
Mademoiselle de Marignan at the Opera, 
was struck with admiration at the romantic 
beauty of Fernand d’Arville. As she was 
arrived at an age when a woman may bold- 
ly express an opinion, she did not conceal 
the enthusiasm with which the young poet 
had inspired her. She had Fernand intro- 
duced to her, and engaged him to spend a 
month at the Chateau de Tallemant, a 
magnificent demense which she possessed in 
Touraine. 

“ Ketreat” was the name which the Prin- 
cess chose to call the agitated existence 
which her guests led on her estates, and 
whicli was only a continuation of Parisian 
life, concentrated within a narrower, and 
consequently more agreeable, circle. Every 
evening there were charades, music, and 
dancing, or that dangerous amusement 
which has received the name of '‘'’jeux inno- 
cents ^ 

Yalerie de Marignan, who had been in- 
vited, was the centre of attraction of this 
brilliant villegiature. No one waltzed with 
that exquisite grace, that voluptuousness 
full of modesty ; no one could rival her in 
her posture in a tableau, in which she ex- 
hibited to the greatest advantage the splen- 
dor of a soft, aerial beauty, nor in acting a 
charade with that elegance masked by 
coquetry and superiority. Without being 
witty, she succeeded in amusing simply by 
her desire to please. Malicious criticisms, 
and jests the least daring in the world, fall- 
ing from her coral lips, presented a striking 
contrast with her look of heavenly sweet- 
ness, and her ensemble so essentially woman- 
ly. The demon was so well concealed under 
the angel’s wings that its existence would 
scarcely be suspected. You asked yourself, 
on seeing and hearing her, whether she 
was a spirit of light, as her exterior denot- 
ed, or an envious and malicious woman, 
as her conversation would lead you to sup- 
pose. 

Yalerie, in short, was no more than an 
excellent actress. She had studied the ef- 
fect of each word, of each gesture, the in- 
flexion of the voice, the play of the features, 
and all the mis-en-scene of the conversation. 
She had for sucii a length of time been 
playing on the great theatre of the world a 
part, half sincere and half coquettish, that 


34 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


■what would have been affectation in an- 
other was perfectly natural in her. 

But we are not writing Valerie’s history : 
we have only to speak of her in so far as 
she is connected with Fernand’s destiny. 

In the indisposition of mind in which he 
found himself on his arrival at the ChSiteau 
de Tallemant, one-half of the seductions 
with which Madamoiselle de Marignan sur- 
rounded him would have more than suf- 
ficed to make him her dupe and her slave. 
He demanded nothing further than to be- 
lieve in her, to close his eyes to all her im- 
perfections, to feel the weight of her yoke, 
to renounce his tastes, his wishes, his sym- 
pathies. Fernand — who had denied the 
existence of love, who had dared to lay 
down the blasphemous maxim : “ Love is 
possession” — now understood all the depths 
of the abyss which separates the true pas- 
sion, — that passion,sublime even in its errors 
and its humiliations, — from the gross pleas- 
ure of the senses, — a fleeting joy, which 
saddens and debases the soul, that divine 
essence which God has placed in us, and 
which cannot endure the stain of earth. 

There is nothing so beautiful or so intoxi- 
cating as the dawn of the passion. But, to 
describe it worthily one must be young, 
happy, beloved ; one must be in love one’s- 
self. Alas ! the blessed hour of this dawn 
fleets away so rapidly, and the day which 
succeeds so soon begins to decline ! 

Oh ! if love could be what we dream it 
when its first emotions agitate us ! If it 
could continue always radiant and covered 
with flowers, this world, in spite of all the 
sorrows and griefs which oppress and dis- 
figure it, would be still too beautiful. 

But it is not so : the tears of sadness 
quickly succeed to the smiles of joy ; doubt 
follows close on confidence ; and the brow 
adorned with flowers, ends, sooner or later, 
by bearing the sad marks of the crown of 
thorns. 

The souvenir of the past — that past, itself 
80 radiant with happiness and love — be- 
comes a thought of bitterness when the 
present offers us nothing but mortification 
and disenchantrnents. And yet, how beau- 
tiful it was, that time which is gone forever ! 

But nothing can restore us faded illu- 
sions, deceived hopes, affections extinguish- 
ed or betrayed ; time has devoured all. In 
vain do we extend our impatient hands to 
grasp at that which is lost, in vain do we 
endeavor to reanimate in our enchanted 
souls that sublime credulity which expe- 
rience, the great master of humanity, has 
destroyed ! The charm is forever broken, 
the dream is vanislied never to return, and 
all the golden imaginations of our delightful 
youth have given place to dull reality. 

And yet we are not ungrateful to the 
past Though the remembrance of happy 
days bedews our eyes with tears, let us pre- 


serve it as a sacred relic in the temple of 
our hearts. Woe to those who forget it I 
Woe to those who do not worship the days 
gone-by, who have not the religion of recol- 
lections! Woe to those who do not sur- 
round with an immortal halo the memory 
of that which they have loved ! 

Many years may have separated two 
hearts which have burned for one another ; 
fate may have driven them asunder, far as 
the north is from the south, the ea&t from 
the west; one may be happy in heaven, 
and the other weeping on earth ; the events 
of life, suspicions, jealousy, — alas ! perhaps 
even inconstancy, — may have disunited 
them. But, in the truly noble soul there 
always remains a chord, which vibrates at 
the least remembrance of those happy 
days ; then do prayers tremble on the lips 
which had long ceased to pray, tears fill the 
eyes which had forgotten how to weep ; 
then we experience vague tenderness, bitter 
regrets, — all those feelings unperceived, un- 
known to the world, but accepted by Him 
“who pitieth our infirmities, knowing that 
we are but dust,” the Father of all those 
orphans in the heart “ who walk the earth 
in sadness and solitude.” 

During the month which he passed at the 
Chateau de Tallemant, Fernand enjoyed un- 
alloyed happiness. He loved Yalerie with 
all the ardor of his fiery imagination, with 
all the tenderness he possessed by nature. 
On her side, Yalerie smiled at the passion 
of the young and handsome poet, who flat- 
tered her self-love through those points 
most invulnerable to ordinary attacks. They 
exchanged the ephemeral vows of “ eternal 
love,” rings, locks of hair — love tokens, the 
fragility of which is learned by experience, 
but which will be renewed, to be broken 
the next moment, so long as the world shall 
exist. 

D’Arville had not formally demanded Ya- 
lerie’s hand, but it was tacitly agreed be- 
tween them that, on his arrival in Paris, 
Fernand should be presented at the Hotel 
de Marignan; that he should call into re- 
quisition all the seductions of his genius to 
captivate the old Duchess, and that the ro- 
mance so well commenced should end satis- 
factorily to every body in a happy marriage. 

At this time Yalerie was sincere, and was 
really determined to fulfil her engagement. 
Notwithstanding her beauty and high birth, 
she had already suflered considerably in her 
good repute. In the circle in which she 
lived she had gradually arrived at a false 
position. She had seen several advanta- 
geous matches broken off when on the point 
of being accomplished, and, not to appear 
rejected, she had given way to a coquetry 
which had sometimes passed the limit 
French toleration allows to young pei'sons 
before marriage. The suicide of Count de 
B had been a subject of scandal which 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


35 


Valerie’s enemies did not fail to turn to 
their advantage. Again, the errors of the 
mother had marked the daugliter’s forehead 
with a brand of shame, which seemed a sad 
augury for her future. And yet this guilty 
mother, who in flying the conjugal roof had 
in some manner bequeathed dishonor to her 
child, was the only being in the world whom 
Valerie had ever loved. 

She was quite young at the time, but she 
preserved a distinct recollection of their last 
interview. She still saw this woman, of such 
extraordinary beauty, strain her, weeping, 
to her heart; and many a time, — before the 
soul of the young girl had become dried up 
by contact with the frozen reserve of her 
father, and by the lessons of interested cal- 
culation which the old Duchess had taught 
her, — she had shed bitter tears before the 
door of that closed and silent chamber where 
she had received her mother’s last kiss. 

As far as birth and fortune were concern- 
ed, a marriage with M. Fernand d’Arville, a 
simple attache to the embassy, had nothing 
brilliant; but the remarkable beauty and 
distinguished talent of the young poet could 
explain it in a very plausible manner ; and 
Valerie flattered herself that in this alliance, 
called a love-match, no one would suspect 
the last resource of a coquette. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The Hotel de Marignan, situated at the 
extremity of the Rue de Varennes, is one 
of the most magnificent relics of the ancient 
nobility. A long avenue of elms leads to 
the great court, at the further end of which 
is the mansion, constructed of cut stone, of 
a sombre grayish tint. 

The apartments are of majestic dimen- 
sions, adorned with ceilings richly sculp- 
tured, with inlaid floors, and rich hangings 
of tapestry and Spanish leather. It is full 
of mysterious closets, winding-staircases, 
and secret doors, so necessary under the old 
ritrime. But, at the period of our tale, the 
w'fiole edifice bore evidence of complete de- 
cay ; the grass was growing in the grand 
court yard, the garden was neglected, and 
the apartments so gorgeously decorated 
were partly destitute of furniture, and badly 
lighted. You shivered with cold at the sight 
of the miserable fires, which almost disap- 
peared under the shadow of the huge old 
marble chimney pieces, whose vast hearths 
must formerly have devoured whole forests 
of wood. 

The fortunes of the Marignans had suf- 
fered, not only in the Revolution of 1793, 
but also in that of 1830. The head of this 
ancient family had filled one of the first 


offices at the court of Charles X : he lost it, 
and would not accept any compensation. He 
was an excessively dull, but honest man ; 
he remained faithful to his souvenirs as well 
as to his political religion, nobly declined 
the proposals which were made to him, and 
esteemed himself well rewarded by some 
words of acknowledgment on his annual 
visit to Grratz. 

The Duke de Marignan lived in almost 
absolute retirement ; when he made his ap- 
pearance for a short time at his mother’s 
receptions, which were held every Sunday 
since the Restoration, it seemed quite an 
event. He passed his time in poring over 
old books, whence he obtained the infor- 
mation which he employed to tire his friends 
whenever he met them. In the evening he 
joined a party at whist or piquet. He seldom 
saw his daughter, and did not take the least 
trouble about her education, the cares of 
which had been abandoned to the old 
Duchess. 

He had, it was said, married at Vienna 
the young and beautiful Countess Arnheira, 
the widow of a Hungarian Magyar. This 
marriage — in which the lady was influenced 
solely by ambition, whilst the Duke, in con- 
tracting it, had listened only to love — had 
turned out most unfortunately, a divorce 
having been obtained in consequence of a 
public scandal (the flight of the Duchess 
with an unknown artist). From that day 
forth the Duke had never uttered the name 
of his wife, and had never inquired what 
had become of her, or concerning her means 
of subsistence. Implacable in his resent- 
ment because he was weak, the Duke in- 
closed himself in a haughty dignity, and 
took every pains to hide a grief which could 
only gain him the sympathy of every one. 

Such was Valerie de Marignan’s father. 
In a vast chamber, whose sombre hangings 
were fully illuminated by the light of a sin- 
gle lamp, the Duchess de Marignan was 
seated in one of those ample arm-chairs, d 
la Voltaire^ which have been superseded by 
our more comfortable chairs of the present 
day. The bed, with curtains of exquisitely 
embroidered satin, and whose rich colors 
had been long faded, and a toilet of old 
Alen 9 on lace laden with massive silver 
plate, imparted a character of splendor to 
this apartment. The paintings with which 
the ceiling was adorned were of that school 
which Boucher had rendered so celebrated 
— they represented nymphs very scantily 
clothed, escorted by shepherds in a similar 
costume (if indeed the garlands of flowers 
which composed all their covering might be 
so called), and in every panel was a large 
Venetian mirror of exquisite workmanship. 

And yet, notwithstanding all these relics 
of former splendor, this chamber had a sad, 
cold aspect. The hangings, although very 
curious as objects of ‘;rt, everywhere boro 


36 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


evidence of the ravages of time ; the floor, 
in spite of the richness of its antique inlaid 
tvork, protested against the absence of the 
carpet ; whilst the shade of the single lamp, 
by economising the light to the advantage 
of the great arm-chair and its environs, left 
all the rest of the chamber in complete ob- 
scurity. 

Notwithstanding her seventy years, the 
Duchess de Marignan still preserved some 
traces of the beauty for which she had for- 
merly been celebrated. With a slender 
waist, she still maintained an erect carriage; 
the contour of her noble and haughty fea- 
tures had preserved the purity of its lines, 
but the charm of its ensemble was destroyed 
by the hard and deceitful expression of the 
mouth, by the cold piercing glance of the 
clear gray eye, which had never emitted a 
ray of tenderness or pity. 

In contemplating this old dowager, with 
the rigid physiognomy and the haughty 
mien, it was difficult to believe in the anec- 
dotes of her youth ; for, associating as we 
usually do, the weaknesses of woman with 
gentleness and tenderness, we are apt to for- 
get that gallantry — to use a mild term — has 
a large share in the pomps of love. Madame 
de Marignan had had lovers, and had never 
loved. In her eyes, the gratification of a 
caprice carried with it no degradation, Her 
code of morality was limited to never com- 
promising herself by a written word, and 
never permitting the least familiarity from 
those who had passed the discreet threshold 
of her boudoir. 

The Duchess was in evening dress : it was 
easy to perceive, by the skilful combinations 
of her toilet, that she did not yet consider 
herself as entirely past the age of attractions. 
Nevertheless it must be acknowledged that 
these last remaining glimpses of coquetry 
did not display themselves with that.friglit- 
ful aflectation which characterises some 
English dowagers, who, parodying the early 
martyrs of the Church, seem to take a pride 
in their infirmities, and whom we might 
suspect to be secret members of some asso- 
ciation for the extinction of gallantry, so 
courageously do they display their withered 
charms, to show young beauties what arms, 
shoulders, and bosoms can become ! The 
skeletons exhibited at the Egyptian banquets 
had not a more philosophical design. 

Less courageous and more skilful, the 
Duchess de Marignan allowed no more than 
the suspicion of ruins perfectly disguised. 
Her dress was high, but tlm manner in which 
it was designed, tlie position of the black 
lace shawl just indicating the form of a 
waist still slender and elegant, — the arrange- 
ment of the ruffles of fine Valenciennes, 
falling over the hands, covered with valua- 
ble rings, — the narrow satin shoe, setting 
off to the utmost advantage the smallness 
of the foot, — the ingenious disposition of a 


string of light hair, — everything, even to 
the slight layer of rouge sparingly applied 
to her cheeks, indicated that shade of decent 
pretensions which we tolerate and love in 
the old age of women who know how to 
grow old. 

On the evening in question — not a usual 
circumstance — the Duchess was going out ; 
the carriage had been announced, and the 
old lady, in a sharp voice, had ordered 
Mademoiselle Valerie to be instantly sent 
to her. It was evident that a storm was 
gathering, — a cloud of displeasure darkened 
the countenance of the dowager, a smile of 
contempt contracted her thin lips, and her 
hand convulsively grasped an open letter. 

“Worthy daughter of such a mother!” 
murmured she, tapping the floor with her 
impatient foot. “ Courted, and more than 
half seduced by a man of nothing, an upstart 
calling himself a poet, who lives on rhymes 
and privations. The fool I — ‘ he has no for- 
tune to offer his adored Valerie, but a ten- 
der and devoted heart’ — as if a girl of her 
stamp had need of a heart. She, a Marig- 
nan! for she is one, though her blood may 
be adulterated by that stranger, who desert- 
ing our house, has left us this sole inherit- 
ance. Oh !” she continued, throwing the 
letter which she held in her hand, on the 
floor ; “ if I listened to my anger I would 
crush him under my feet like tliis miserable 
scrap of paper ! But,” resumed she, after 
a moment’s silence, taking up the letter, and 
carefully smoothing its folds, “ I must con- 
strain myself ; I must speak gently to this 
baby; I must flatter her vanity, her only 
passion ; by turns frighten her with skilful 
threats, and appease her by caresses; or 
she will escape me like a restive filly, and 
bring some new scandal on our unfortunate 
family. What she herself might become I 
care but little. I hate her! I hate her 
youth, her beauty, her power of captivating, 
her high opinion of herself, her duplicity ! 
Her whole being is hateful to me, and her 
insolence more than all the rest. Has she 
not dared to brave me under hypocritical 
submission, and coolly thrown in my teeth 
little youthful errors, which she has dis- 
covered I know not how ? But, patience a 
little longer! Until her marriage I have 
assumed the responsibility for her conduct, 
and she must leave my house Countess of 
Melrose.’ 

Thus far had the Duchess got in her re- 
flections when she was interrupted by the 
arrival of Valerie. 

The young girl approached her grand- 
mother, inclining with pretended respect to 
kiss her hand : Valerie had never looked so 
beautiful or been so becomingly dressed. 
Her robe was so transparent that it might 
have been mistaken for a cloud; a pearl 
necklace, less dazzling and less pure than 
the snowy neck which it gracefully encom- 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


37 


passed, was her only ornament. It might 
truly have been said of her as of one of 
Byron’s heroines — 

“ Round her she shed an atmosphere of light, 

The very air seemed brighter from her eyes.” 

Her golden tresses, her complexion resplen- 
dent with life and youth, the moist lustre 
of her eyes, threw around her an inexplic- 
able charm. Her every movement had all 
the grace and suppleness of a Creole ; in 
tlie ensemble of her person there was a 
gazelle-like timidity, a mixture of artless 
innocence, thoughtless gaiety, and adorable 
melancholy, enough to turn the head of St. 
Anthony himself. 

The Duchess, as we have said, was one of 
those women who know how to grow old 
gracefully, but only as far as the exterior is 
concerned. The look which she cast on her 
grand-daUghter expressed far more envy 
than aversion. She tightened her grasp on 
the accusing letter, which was to place 
Valerie as a guilty being before her judge, 
and cover her delicate cheeks with the blush 
of shame. 

Valerie, who comprehended all at a single 
glance, had perceived the letter, and recog- 
nized the hand ; but, with that profound 
dissimulation which long habit had rendered 
easy to her, she repressed every token of 
surprise, and drove back the blood which 
rushed to her countenance. 

“Sit down, Valerie,” said the Duchess, 

“ I have to talk seriously with you before I 
go to the Princess de B ’s. A letter in- 

tended for you has fallen into my hands. 
It is unnecessary to inform you from whom 
it comes, for notwithstanding the consum- 
mate skill — you see I do you justice — which 
has enabled you to disguise your emotion, I 
have read in your glance, in spite of its 
rapidity, the revelation of your secret. As 
you have been deprived from your infancy 
of the care of a mother, whose place I have 
endeavored to fill, I have no excuse to 
make for having exercised my rights in 
opening a letter which was addressed to 
you. Neither do I desire to prolong your 
punishment by telling you all I have suffered 
since I have read it, — all the grief which I 
have felt at seeing the dreams of greatness 
which I had formed for you destroyed for- 
ever, — all my indignation at discovering that 
the only daughter of the Duke de Marignan- 
Crecy had lowered herself so far as to main- 
tain a clandestine correspondence with a 
miserable rhymester.” 

“On that point, Madame,” replied Valerie, 
with all the dignity of which she was capa- 
ble, “ you are in error. Blood as noble as 
our own runs in the veins of M. Fernand 
d’Arville. His mother was an Alcantara 1” 

“ And his father a banker, elevated to the 
dignity of a baron : I know it. He himself 


performs the high functions of attache to an 
embassy, with a salary of some thousand 
francs, which he offers you with his heart 
and his name. But I am not now going to 
discuss the genealogy of this gentleman, nor 
even to reproach you with the levity of 
your conduct. I might have acted differ- 
ently towards you. I might have shown 
this letter to your father, who, if he were 
not in the humor to treat the affair as a 
piece of childish folly, would have taken se- 
vere measures to make you repent your im- 
prudence.^ My son, you know, gives him- 
self very little trouble about how time pass- 
es; whilst we, my dear Valerie, we know 
that, notwithstanding that charming ap- 
pearance of extreme youth which is one of 
your most captivating attractions, you are 
no longer a little girl ; we even know that 
you have considerable experience and judg- 
ment, and this is why I have decided to 
treat you as a woman. It is time that you 
should give an exact account of your po- 
sition, and that you should come to some 
decision for the future.” 

It certainly was not an angel’s glance 
which Valerie threw on the Duchess as she 
paused, with ambiguous complaisance, at 
this unfortunate question of age; but her 
dissimulation did not abandon her, and she 
feigned an attention full of humility, whilst 
her heart swelled with impatience and re- 
bellion. 

The Duchess lost not a single one of these 
movements, so skilfully disguised, and quiet- 
ly continued her address. 

“I have already spoken to you of the 
misfortunes of our family. You know that 
the fatal marriage of your father with the 
widow of a Count of the House of Arnheim 
was followed by a scandalous divorce. 
Among the great families of our faubourg, 
where your name and your acknowledged 
beauty might have obtained you some mag- 
nificent alliance, this unfortunate history 
has been an insurmountable obstacle to 
your establishment. You know the prov- 
erb — ‘like mother, like daughter!’ Alas! 

I have often trembled at seeing you exposed 
to the realization of this fatal proverb, 
when, at times, my advice and my eflTorts, 
even my authority became powerless 
against the hereditary influence by which 
you seemed to be governed. Is not your 
correspondence with a man who has never 
been introduced to your father nor to me ai 
plain evidence of this imprudence and this 
culpable levity ? Nevertheless,” continued 
she, after a moment’s silence, intended to 
increase the solemnity of her words, “ if 
you really love, — if you in fact believe, that 
you, Valerie de Marignan, can live happily 
while vegetating as an attache’s wife at 
some petty G-erman court on ten thousand 
francs a-year, God forbid I should oppose 
your wishes ! I confess that I had imagined 


38 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


a more brilliant destiny for you, one more 
suited to the elegant tastes I fancied you 
possessed. I should have thought that a 
marriage of the fourth rank — such as that 
which has been proposed to you — would 
only have offended your pride. I gave you 
too much credit for judgment and for wis- 
dom, and I did not render justice to your 
sensibility. Lord Melrose, whom you met 
last year in London and at Baden, has been 
for some days in Paris. The Princess de 

B had invited him for this evening, 

principally on your account. When a 
young man he fell in love with a French 
woman, and from that time he has had a 
weakness for us. He is positively deter- 
mined to marry in France, and, since he has 
unbounded confidence in the good taste of 
the dear Princess, he will permit himself to 
be guided by her in this important choice. 
What shall I tell you 1 She has spoken to 
him of you; all the praises of our friend 
have found an echo in his lordship’s heart, 
and she thinks she has discovered a. more 
tender and more decided sentiment under 
this excessive admiration. The Princess 
has told me of her hopes, and, as Lord Mel- 
rose is one of the handsomest men in Eng- 
land, we have thought that you would per- 
haps pardon him the prosaic fact of the mil- 
lion a-year with which he is aflfiicted. I 
ought not to conceal from you that your 
friend Ad^le de Lemenil is endeavoring to 
secure him; I even know that there are 
bets in her favor, and yet she is far from 
being as pretty as you. But only see what 
an old fool I am ! Here I have been telling 
you things which can no longer interest 
you, whilst you are dying with anxiety to 
read this tender epistle. I tell you, before- 
hand, that it is quite perfumed with poetry, 
and that it will afiPect your feelings very 
considerably. 

The dowager, full of confidence in the re- 
sults of her plan of attack, allowed a sar- 
donic smile to play around her lips as she 
handed the letter to Valerie, whose every 
motion she watchfully noted from the cor- 
ner of her eye. She had studied her with 
care when she was speaking of Lord Mel- 
rose ; she had seen her color heighten when 
she pronounced the name of Ad^le de Lera- 
enil, her rival for grace and elegance in 
Parisian society ; she remarked, in fine, the 
coolness with which Valerie reached forth 
her hand to take the poor letter, less crushed 
perhaps at that moment than Fernand’s 
aflfection, the carelessness with which the 
young girl held the paper in attempting to 
read it, and the feverish impatience of the 
pretty hands, which were occupied in disar- 
ranging the long ringlets, whose symmetry 
was so exquisitely natural by means of the 
resources of art. 

“This gentleman,'^ added the Duchess, 
pointedly refraining from pronouncing the 


name of Fernand d’Arville, “ wishes you to 
meet him to-morrow at the Tuileries, ac- 
companied only by your Jady’s maid — the 
indispensable soubrelte ! This proceeding is 
to decide his fate and yours, for he is to de- 
part for Naples in a few days, to join his 
embassy there. And now, my dear girl, I 
shall leave you with your letter, for I must 
go to the Princess’s. Shall I announce your 

approaching marriage with Monsieur 

I cannot recollect his name? What good 
fortune for the little Lemenil!” 

Valerie had remained standing near the 
chimney-piece. Her cheeks were deeply 
flushed, her eyes sparked with a strange 
Are. It was evident that a terrible struggle 
was passing within her. All the calculation 
and vanity inherent to that cold and indi- 
gent nature had been roused to action by 
the sarcasms of the Duchess ; whilst, on the 
other hand, the remembrance of Fernand, 
his majestic beauty, his noble mind, his 
adoration for herself, spoke powerfully in 
her heart. It cost her something to re- 
nounce all this, and restore to her captive a 
liberty which he might barter for new chains, 
or which might lead him back to Madame 
Lostanges ! 

The Duchess easily read the frivolous 
soul of Valerie, and she did not lose sight 
of her while making the last additions to 
her toilet. When she had put on her 
mantle and gloves, she approached her 
grand-daughter, and kissed her on both 
cheeks. 

“ Dear child,” said she, as she regarded 
her with an expression of the greatest ad- 
miration, “ it is really a pity that Lord Mel- 
rose cannot see you this evening, since it 
would only be to regret you all his life I 
Ad^le de Lemenil dresses well, but she is 
short of stature and too headstrong. How- 
ever, if she succeed in marrying his lord- 
ship, that will not prevent her possessing 
the finest diamond in England, and an al- 
most regal demesne, where you can visit 

her when you are Madame I can never 

recollect the name of the poet!” 

The young girl quickly extricated lierself 
from the arms of the dowager, her worthy 
instructress. Wounded self-love caused the 
color to mount to her face ; and, before this 
vision of gold and diamonds, the vacillating 
flame of her love expired. Her slender 
fingers crushed the letter which she no 
longer wished to read : that letter, in which 
Fernand had poured out all the treasures 
of his soul! The selfish heart of Valerie 
stifled its remorse in one last sigh of tender- 
ness. She threw the letter into the fire, and 
the flames devoured it : she turned to the 
Duchess. 

“ You are right, dear mamma,” said she, 
endeavoring to conceal the alteration in her 
voice ; “ I believe, like you, that I am not 
destined to become the wife of a man with- 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


out fortune, and to sacrifice myself to love, 
I resemble you to closely for that. Let us 
go to the Princess de B ’s !” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Next day Fernand received a letter from 
the Duchess de Marignan. 

This letter was couched in terms of the 
most exact and conventional politeness : it 
completely destroyed the edifice of his 
hopes. The dowager was sparing in her 
details, but the words she employed were 
so much to the point, — the arrow which 
she shot went so directly to the mark, — 
that it would have required a constitution 
more than robust to resist the shock, or to 
recover from it. In each single phrase 
there was a whole arsenal of sarcasms, of 
studied politeness, but sharp and cutting as 
steel. Each one of them wounded an illu- 
sion or mutilated a hope. A mind of the 
first rank would have been disabled before 
the second broadside. 

But vanity does not possess living vigor, 
and Fernand’s outraged self-love placed him 
from the first moment of attack at the 
mercy of his persecutor. To feel one’s-self 
stabbed by the knitting-needle of an old 
woman is, it must be confessed, rather an 
unfortunate ending for an amorous romance ! 

The wretched Fernand, all mangled from 
the dowager’s thrusts, saw the cup of happi- 
ness snatched from his hands at the mo- 
ment when he was about to raise it to his 
thirsting lips ; and he was forbidden to 
dream of vengeance, for, in that letter of 
stiff crabbed characters was a little note, 
erfumed with violets, whose seal bore the 
eloved initials. This note, which Fernand 
bathed with his tears, expressed a despair 
so profound, a struggle so poignant between 
love and obedience, that it would have 
melted the heart of a North American sav- 
age. 

As a general rule, we cannot sufliciently 
wonder at the strange facility with which a 
man allows himself to be deceived. We do 
not here speak of those simpletons whom 
nature has fashioned expressly for the office 
of dupes, but of men of mind and expe- 
rience,— of those sly dogs, who have lived 
ten existences in one, — wlio will repeat you 
a string of maxims full of wisdom on 
the inconstancy and frivolity of woman, — 
who pride themselves on a superb disdain 
of their stratagems, and would be highly 
amused at the bare supposition that it 
would be possible to take them in such piti- 
ful snares ! 

These are the very men who are the first 
to fall into the- nets, sometimes so clumsily 


39 

spread that even a blind man would avoid 
them. 

Do you ask the reason of such presump- 
tion and such weakness ? An old question 
which has not yet been resolved. Is it the 
honesty of a noble character, which does 
not admit the suspicion of all the perfidy of 
which woman’s heart is susceptible ? Or is 
it not actually the foolish vanity of man, 
which inevitably leads him to believe in 
everything which can flatter it. 

D’Arville did not want wit, penetration, 
nor even a certain amount of experience. 
If one of those self-styled unfortunates, 
who are so often met in the back-grounds 
of Parisian life, were to have related him 
some absurd story, in order to obtain his 
protection or his money, he would very 
soon have discovered the weak points in the 
tale, and would have been indignant at the 
imposition which had been unsuccessfully 
practiced upon him ; but a few lines of 
amorous protestations found him perfectly 
defenceless. Henri d’Oreraont had told 
him, a few moments before the arrival of 
these two missives, that on the previous 
evening he had seen Mademoiselle de Ma- 
rignan at the Princess de B ’s, that 

she was radiant with success, and that Lord 
Melrose had not quitted her side for the 
whole evening. These words had aroused 
his jealousy, and yet, no sooner had he read 
the charming perfumed note which was se- 
cretly addressed to him, but he would have 
sworn that Valerie was the unhappy victim 
of an iron destiny. 

Nevertheless, Fernand did not feel at his 
heart sufficient magnanimity or resignation 
to renounce the object of his love without a 
struggle. He demanded an interview with 
the Duchess. Th« old lady, who understood 
all the advantages of temporising, acceded 
to his request, but after a delay which al- 
lowed Lord Melrose time to make a more 
positive avowal, the result of which was not 
difficult to anticipate. 

The happy nobleman had just exchanged 
the chaste kiss of betrothal, and his car- 
riage was leaving the court-yard of the 
Hotel de Marignan, as Fernand entered. 

Valerie’s thoroughly worldly heart was 
still beating under its triple armor, and its 
emotion might easily be accounted for, by 
the prospect of a union with one of the 
richest and handsomest men in England; 
but its palpitations increased to violence 
when the dowager insisted on Valerie’s 
being present at her intended conversation 
with M. d’Arville. For the Duchess had at 
length succeeded in remembering this name, 
though she mercilessly restored its plebeian 
origin, by giving it the capital D, and omit- 
ting the apostrophe. It was the old lady’s 
wish that M. Darmlle^ as she called him, 
should receive his definite refusal from the 
lips of his former mistress herself. 


40 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


In vain did Yalerie entreat to be spared 
this trial ; the Duchess, who feared the 
stratagems of her grand-daughter, was in- 
exoraWe, and Yalerie, like a criminal re- 
ceiving sentence, was obliged to be present 
during the conversation. The dowager, 
with all the disdain which the most frigid 
politeness would admit of, gave Fernand to 
know the uselessness of the attentions 
“ which he was so happy to pay” to Made- 
moiselle de Marignan, for the simple reason 
— that she was about to marry Lord Mel- 
rose, to whom she was engaged. 

Fernand grew pale at this unexpected 
piece of news : he bit his lips with rage, to 
keep down the sob which swelled in his 
throat and was suffocating him. But his 
heart refused to believe it; he turned to- 
wards the woman he loved, and his look, 
full of sublime trust, asked her (for he could 
not speak) to give the lie to this calumny, 
and to fling back its shame on its origin- 
ator. 

Yalerie remained speechless : Fernand’s 
glance of entreaty, the severe, inflexible look 
of the Duchess, mingled on her countenance 
as on a field of combat, where love and in- 
terest were fighting a bloody and decisive 
battle. There was a silence of some mo- 
ments. Yal6rie lowered her head, to escape 
the mute interrogatories which were devour- 
ing her, and disputing for her answer as for 
a prey : she painfully prolonged this embar- 
rassing silence. The Duchess began to fear, 
and Fernand to hope. 

“ My daughter !” said the dowager, who 
comprehended the necessity of bringing the 
interview to a conclusion; “M. Darville 
awaits your decision, why delay to make it 
known to him ? You know I have never 
placed any constraint on you, and even at 
this moment, if you repent your choice, 
there is yet time to retract. Lord Melrose 
desires your happiness above all things, and 
will not owe his to anything but a senti- 
ment of preference freely expressed. If a 
more tender feeling draw you towards an- 
other, be assured that he will of himself re- 
nounce your hand.” 

The perfect calm, the appearance of ma- 
ternal solicitude, which reigned in these 
words, completely opened Fernand’s eyes. 
He was like the blind man under the hands 
of the operator, who had just removed the 
cataract which had obscured his sight. Only 
he cursed the sight which had been restored 
to him, and the hand by which he had been 
cured. 

Oh ! how mean and pitiful must Yalerie 
have felt herself in this solemn moment, in 
the presence of that noble affection which 
she had so basely deceived. This scene, in 
which she played such a contemptible part, 
recalled to her mind those fairy tales in 
which we see a beggar transformed by the 


I power of magic into a princess all resplen- 
dent with beauty, and then, by a new strobe 
of the magician’s wand, forced to resume 
her former shape, her ugliness, and her 
rags. 

At this moment — when Yalerie, trem- 
bling, humiliated, crimson with shame, stam- 
mered out the disavowal of her oaths, and 
tacitly acknowledged that she had sold her- 
self, like Donna Sabina, “ for a gold ring ” — 
Yalerie,’ fascinated by the imperious and 
sardonic look of the Duchess, crushed under 
Fernand’s bitter disdain — Yalerie had lost 
her beauty, her power, and her attractions. 
Fernand, on the contrary, had increased by 
all the height of his outraged affections, of 
his offended pride. Calm in his grief, rais- 
ing with dignity his pale and handsome 
countenance, he seemed like the archangel 
of Eden, casting a glance full of majestic 
regret on the guilty wretches who he was 
forced to abandon to their fate. This look 
of disdainful compassion haunted Yalerie’s 
memory for a long time. Doubtless she 
could have contemplated Fernand’s despair 
with a tranquil eye ; but that look — in which 
was revealed such a superiority — that dis- 
dainful and accusing silence, seemed to im- 
print on her vanity the stigma of an indeli- 
ble disgrace — a revenge terrible and com- 
plete, for which Fernand was afterwards to 
atone with all the blood of his heart. 

D’Arville took his leave of the Duchess 
with that deference required by the conven- 
tionalities of the world, even in the most 
terrible crisis of human relations. He would 
have desired to feel himself sufficiently 
strengthened in his contempt to offer Ya- 
lerie the usual compliments, but his former 
love still retained too much place in his 
thoughts, and his voice was suffocated in the 
convulsive sobs with which his chest was 
laboring, and which he kept down by the 
strength of his will. 

When the door of the Hdtel de Marignan 
was closed behind Fernand, Yalerie, deeply 
humiliated, melted into tears, whilst the 
shrill derisive laugh of the dowager seemed 
to form a Satanic accompaniment to the 
lamentations of the young girl. 

“ M. Darville would succeed in melo- 
drama,” said the Duchess, carefully ari*ang- 
ing the fair ringlets of her false hair ; “ but 
all these stage looks and gestures are very 
bad taste in a drawing-room.” 

“ He has his triumph to-day,” murmured 
Yalerie, who still writhed under Fernand’s 
contempt, like a wounded serpent ; “ but my 
turn will come, and he shall pay dearly for 
his victory of a moment.” 

“ Which means, in plain prose,” said the 
Duchess, who had guessed the sense of these 
inarticulate words, — “ ‘ he laughs well who 
laughs the last ’ — That is the war-cry of a 
Marignan!” 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


41 


CHAPTER XV. 

TnE day of Lord Melrose’s marriage with 
Mademoiselle de Marignan had been fixed 
definitively, after a delay of some weeks, 
caused by a mourning in the family. The 
trousseau was officially exhibited, splendid 
festivities were announced ; and Fernand’s 
friends, who no longer found either cham- 
pagne breakfasts or cigars at his house, did 
not fail to communicate to him, every hour 
of the day, the bulletin of the triumphal 
march of the betrothed pair towards a bril- 
liant wedding. Fernand preserved an im- 
passible exterior, but the gnawing worm of 
jealousy was stealthily at work on him. His 
heart still bleeding from the wound which 
would not close; sick in body as well as 
mind, he could not resume his pen, and the 
fire of his genius seemed extinguished in the 
gloomy monotony of an eternal idea. 

Amongst a certain class of persons, more 
ingenious than reflective, it is understood 
that verse is the natural language of the 
poet, and that he exhales his joys and his 
sorrows in hemistichs, like the bird singing 
among the branches. As for ourselves, we 
do not receive these literary doctrines in 
place of sentiment, we have no faith in the 
grief which expresses itself in rhymes, and 
weeps in Alexandrines. Fernand, who pre- 
served the same fidelity in his grief as in 
everything else, allowed the inspirations 
which had rendered his leisure hours illus- 
trious to slumber, and his ideas naturally 
turned towards Les Charmettes. 

There is a perfectly magic power in that 
untranslatable English word “ home,” which 
expresses the moral centre of family aff'ec- 
tions, — the focus of common instincts, of 
gentle emotions, of tender recollections, and 
of sacred hopes. For those who have shared 
its blessings, who have tasted the charm of 
its true and peaceful joys, these recollections 
always remain ; they gleam in the midst of 
error as lights in darkness, which point 
them to a better future, — as the star of Beth- 
lehem led the shepherds to the Saviour of 
the world. 

Those unfortunate beings in whose souls 
the word “home” finds no echo are to be 
pitied ; they have no asylum on earth, and 
can seek a refuge nowhere but in the tomb 
or in heaven ! 

But you, more fortunate men ! whose 
hearths have not been profaned, whose 
household gods are still erect, who yet pre- 
serve the holy family ark. Oh ! never de- 
spise it ! turn not away in weariness and 
disgust from an existence which may seem 
monotonous. It is there that happiness is 
sometimes and safety always found. 

Fernand turned his thoughts towards Les 
Charmettes, and called to mind the holy af- 
fection which awaited him in that modest 
abode, — the peaceful garden, the vine arbor, 


the vast extent of landscape smiling in the 
fresh verdure of spring, or shaded with au- 
tumn’s varied tints, the melancholy tender- 
ness of Inez, Bettine’s affectionate gaiety, 
even the Doctor’s rough good nature, — all 
came back to his memory. 

He recollected also, and at the recollec- 
tion his brow reddened with shame, that he 
had left their letters unanswered, and that 
latterly he had even neglected to read them 
— for the egotism of passion despises the 
sacred bonds of family, and it is at the mo- 
ment when it most needs their aid that it 
tramples them under foot in the violence of 
its frenzy. 

In a fit of sincere repentance Fernand 
sought these letters ; he found them — still 
sealed, and quite covered with the dust 
which many weeks had accumulated — on 
the desk where he had thrown them. He 
was stung with remorse on observing the old 
dates, the profound sadness that penetrated 
every line that Inez had written, and the 
firm confidence that Bettine had reposed in 
him. 

Variable as a woman in his impressions, 
Fernand imagined, in this moment of emo- 
tions, that if he could once bathe in the Jor- 
dan of family affections, he would be com- 
pletely freed from the troubles which beset 
him, that he could then bury himself with- 
out regret in the lowly peace of the Ohar- 
mettes, and there regain his happiness. 

Poor Fernand ! he thought himself become 
wise, and his philosophy was but childish 
inconsistency. His inexperience concealed 
from him the strength of the chains that 
bound him. He did not know that the soul 
once passed through the fire of the passions, 
can no longer be contented with gentle 
family joys ; he was also ignorant that for 
certain idiosyncrasies repose is a hell, and 
that the momentary exhaustion which suc- 
ceeds great emotions, though it may some- 
times assume the aspect of repentance, is 
very far from bearing its fruits. 

It is equally an error to suppose that if, 
in our stupid blindness, we have rejected 
the happiness which was placed within our 
reach, and with our own hands have closed 
the door of hope which lay open for us to 
enter, we can when we wish recover the 
lost good. Which of us has not secretly 
cherished this fatal illusion ? Which of us 
is not disposed to despise what he possesses, 
and to pursue phantoms in the vain hope of 
transforming them into realities ? 

Fernand, then, concluded on returning to 
the Charmettes, but the very day which he 
had fixed on for his departure his valet 
handed him a letter, bearing the postmark 
of Vesoul. The address was in Bettine’s 
writing, but the envelop enclosed a long let- 
ter from Inez, which he read first, and from 
which we shall give a few extracts. 

“ When thou shalt have received this 


42 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


letter, my beloved Fernand, all will be over, 
and thy unhappy sister shall at length have 
found eternal repose in the bosom of a God 
full of mercy for repentance. Thy long 
silence has afflicted us all, and sorely grieved 
me personally. But I do not desire use- 
lessly to recriminate ; the reproaches of the 
dying leave behind them a too bitter re- 
membrance, and I do not desire that my 
memory should be accompanied by any of 
those shadows which might render it terri- 
ble or afflictive. Above all, I wish for thy 
happiness. 

“ Tliou art happy, art thou not, my Fer- 
nand ? If it were otherwise thou wouldst 
return to us, thou wouldst have thirsted for 
our tender affection. But doubtless thou 
hast found that which thou didst seek in 
leaving us. Thy great need of excitement 
has been satisfied, thy dreams of happiness 
have been realized. 

“ And yet, my brother, although the echo 
of thy success still resounds in my ears, I 
am afraid. The eyes which are about to be 
closed forever pierce far into the darkness 
of futurity. I discover in thee that which 
arouses my fears, and also my remorse; 
for, at the time when I allowed myself to 
become absorbed in the frivolous pleasures 
of the world, I should have watched with 
more solicitude, or at least with greater 
judgment, over thy young years. I ought 
to have employed the resources of my influ- 
ence to destroy the evil which, even then 
perhaps, was germinating in thy heart. 

“Thou kiiowest how 1 love thee, Fer- 
nand, how proud I am of thy superiority, 
how I admire all that is great and noble in 
thy mind and in thy heart ; thou canst not, 
therefore, accuse me in the severity of the 
judgment which I pass upon thee. More- 
over, by what right could I dare condemn 
thee? If experience cannot prevent us 
from relapsing ourselves into the errors 
which have already troubled our life, it 
ought at least to teach us forbearance. 

“Lest I should be tempted to arrogate 
myself the right of judging another, in this 
concluding phase of my life, I desire to tear 
open before thee that mantle of virtue in 
which I have clothed myself for so many 
years. I wish to tell thee that I am not 
that chaste and holy martyr which thou 
believest me to be. I wish, above all, to 
tell thee that, but for the devotion of the 
man whom thou didst despise, the stigma 
of an indellible disgrace would have been 
attached to our name. 

^ “ Oh 1 Fernand ! how often, when thou 
didst speak so lightly of my generous Ar- 
mand, did this avowal tremble on my lips ! 
Every word which thou didst utter in my 
praise— mine, the most miserable of crea- 
tures!— has cost me tears of blood during 
the vigils of a slow agony, when each night 
seemed a year. I expiated those imprudent 


words by a hopeless contrition, by penances 
wliose very idea would make thee tremble. 

“ Whilst extended at thy ease on thy 
peaceful couch. Oh ! my brother ! thou wast 
requiring scenes of imaginary sufferings for 
thy poetical dreams, why didst thou not 
suspect the silent and terrible drama which 
was being performed almost under thy very 
eyes ? Thou didst see me weak and dejected, 
but the burthen which overwhelmed me in 
the dust escaped thy observation. Whilst 
I laid me down, uncomplaining, on a bed of 
briars and thorns, the weariness of a mono- 
tonous life was the rose-leaf which disturbed 
thy Sybaritic repose. 

“ It is of this egotism that I wish to speak 
to thee. 

“ With thee egotism is not that personal 
sentiment which excludes all others, and 
which can of itself render a man happy. It 
would be perhaps better if it were so, for 
then thou wouldest be safe from all moral suf- 
ferings ; whilst, careless of the evil which thou 
doest, and which thou dost not even perceive 
when thy passions are in action, the vivacity 
of thy impressions will deliver thee as a prey 
to every suffering, and so much the more as 
thou will take this vivacity of impressions 
for true sensibility. Like so many other 
thinkers of our time, thou hast given a loose 
to thy imagination, and thou hast neglected 
the culture of the most healthy and rational 
sentiments. Thou wilt thirst for the impos- 
sible, thou wilt pursue chimeras, and thou 
wilt despise the easily attained happiness 
which is near thee. Thou wilt pursue that 
which flies from thee, and thou wilt fly that 
which seeks thee : thou wilt break the 
heart which is devoted to thee, and thou 
wilt then weep over the ruins which thou 
hast caused I 

“ Thou hast no fixed principles. Like the 
leaf of autumn, light and withered, thou 
wilt be at the mercy of every breeze which 
may whirl thee about. 

“ These are sad predictions, Fernand ; but 
I would have destroyed my pen rather than 
have written them, if I had not reckoned on 
thy youth and elevation of soul to avert this 
sad augury. It is because the wound is 
curable that I point it out; it is because 
I have first humbled myself before thee that 
I dare to judge thee. 

“ And now my dear Fernand, farewell ! 
for ever farewell ! for the torch of my life 
is expiring, and my hand, already growing 
cold, can hardly guide the pen which sends 
thee my last thoughts. 

“ Why should I speak to thee of Bettine ? 
Her love is a priceless treasure which would 
be profaned by imposing it on him who 
could not appreciate it. I shall not bequeath 
thee that noble heart, to make it a duty to 
accept it a second time. Bettine also has 
had her share of suffering; she has strug- 
gled against her affection for thee with all 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


43 


the fervor of her angelic piety, and she has 
conquered. It is a blessing from God ! Let 
us both thank Him for it, brother ! 

“Bettine cherishes no bitter feelings to- 
wards thee ; not a reproach has ever es- 
caped her lips, nor doubtless come near her 
heart; but in spite of her profound and sin- 
cere humility, 1 believe she has understood 
that thy thoughts were not at the elevation 
of her love, and that she lias henceforth 
consecrated herself to God.” 

Bettine’s letter, which accompanied that 
of Inez, only contained a few lines. She 
described the last moments of Madame Saul- 
nier, who had died like a saint, in the arms 
of the virtuous man who had protected her 
existence, and who would have wished to 
consecrate himself to that of the orphan. 
But Inez had expressed the desire that her 
daughter should be educated by the Ursu- 
line order, in their convent at Vesoul, and 
that, afterwards, she should take the veil, 
if her vocation led her to adopt the mo- 
nastic life. 

Bettine treated nobly and simply the del- 
icate subject of their former engagement. 
She thought that Fernand, under the influ- 
ence of his grief and the last words of Inez, 
might feel a desire to renew the past, and to 
reconstruct an edifice which indifference 
and neglect had demolished. She dissuaded 
him from it, and, in anticipation, met him 
with a refusal full of affection and dignity. 

It was understood that Bettine’s determi- 
nation was irrevocable. She had a tender 
80ul, but strongly tempered, and accustomed 
from its first education to distrust its in- 
clinations, and to submit unconditionally to 
the yoke of duty, when once fixed and ac- 
knowledged as such. 

In fact, during the long and sad winter 
which followed Fernand’s departure, Bet- 
tine had divided her life between the cares 
which Inez’s position required, and the con- 
solations which she lavished on Armand’s 
grief, which, concentrated as it was, she 
guessed, although he concealed it as he 
would a wmund of which he was ashamed. 
Bettine had seriously reflected on the future 
of her own affections. She had understood 
that the accomplishment of the delightful 
dream of her youth would, henceforth, be 
the greatest of misfortunes to her. She re- 
called to mind her mother’s history, — the 
long martyrdom of her misunderstood and 
despised affection. Bettine had accepted 
humiliation as a part of duty, but she had 
shrunk from the idea of a union imposed on 
a man who did not love her, and who would 
only have married her to fulfil an engage- 
ment. Full of unbounded confidence in 
Providence, she felt that God wished her to 
be happy, but happy in another manner; 
and, for this pious young girl, it was almost 
a happiness to cont'onii her desires to His 
powerful but paternal will. Free, Fernand 


would perhaps regret her; but he would 
assuredly have hated her, had his indepen- 
dent character, his untamed heart, felt 
themselves fettered by indissoluble bonds. 

The death of Inez still further strength- 
ened and sanctified Bettine’s resolutions. 
She had an immeasurable grief to console, — 
an inexplicable grief, it is true, for her who 
had been a witness for so many years of the 
coolness between the husband and wife, and 
who could not appreciate its cause. But 
Bettine’s heart was too generous to refuse its 
sympathy to genuine grief, it yielded it spon- 
taneously, without taking the time necessary 
to make an estimate of the quantity of tears 
shed. 

Oh ! Fernand ! what wast thou doing 
when thou repulsed far from thee this 
angel of mercy ? Thou ! whose troubled 
and disordered soul had so much need of 
support and consolation ! 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Fernand, attache to the Naples embassy, 
arrived in that city towards the end of 
November; he was still in deep mourning 
for his sister, and on his pale and noble 
features was impressed that mournful resig- 
nation which succeeds powerful grief. 

One of the first persons whom he met was 
Prince I.uigi Lucchesini, with whom he had 
lived in Paris in a certain degree of inti- 
macy. There was, nevertheless, no affinity 
between their characters ; it was one of 
those connections which owe their origin to 
chance rather than to sympathy, and which 
are as ephemeral as the principle which 
has called them into existence. Be this as 
it may, however, Fernand, a stranger in 
Naples, congratulated himself on meeting 
the Prince, who, on his part, received him 
with open arms. 

Luigi, notwithstanding his good will and 
the keenness of his financial appetite, had 
not been able to inherit a third fortune. 
The necessity for economy, which made it- 
self felt in his budget, had entrapped him in 
his palace within one set of apartments after 
another, at length driving him into a corner 
which had nothing princely about it. His 
two years of absence had not paid one 
farthing of his debts, but they had modified 
his position in this sense, — which he owed 
to Paris almost as much as to Naples — he 
was always the same type of a frivolous 
careless liver, and who might pass at a pinch 
for a handsome man, large, robust, and ac- 
tive, — with light curled hair, blue eyes, a 
fleshy aquiline nose, thick lips, a fresh com- 
plexion, and a fearless, jovial appearance. 

Besides the inclination which Luigi had 


44 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


in general for expense in all the branches 
of the least scrupulous dandyism, he was 
known to have three very decided passions 
— play, wine, and women. In other words, 
he was an expert gambler, a skilful master 
in the matter of beauty — the various rela- 
tions and proportions of which he could 
artistically detail, and a great taster of Bor- 
deaux wines — with all the growths and the 
diverse merits of which he was thoroughly 
acquainted. As for the rest, obliging and 
compassionate — as far as his tastes were 
concerned : that is to say, tliat a gouty man, 
condemned to a course of diet, would have 
commanded all his sympathies ; but, beyond 
material privations, he recognized nothing 
as annoyances. 

Like Doctor Sangrado, Luigi had but one 
remedy for all the ills of life ; with this dif- 
ference — that he found exclusively in wine 
the happy effects which the physician in 
“ Gil Bias''' attributed to water. So long 
as there remained upon the earth a good 
bottle of wine, cards, and a compassionate 
beauty, he shru^ed his shoulders at the 
idea of inconsolame grief. 

And yet this was the man whom Fer- 
nand, for want of a better, chose for the 
confidant of his troubles, — Luigi ! who never 
loved in his life, who had no elevated ideas, 
and whose only ambition in the way of pro- 
gress was to become richer and more ro- 
bust, and to be able to manage six bottles 
instead of four at his dinner ! 

Fernand knew all this, but the unfor- 
tunate feel an irresistible necessity to un- 
bosom their griefs, and to find a benevolent 
ear to listen, or at least pretend to listen, to 
them, for want of a compassionate heart 
that might share them. Would not these 
unhappy beings do better to confide, like 
King Midas, their secret to the earth which 
no longer gives birth to indiscreet reeds ? 

During Fernand’s recital Lucchesini 
smoked two cigars, swallowed several 
glasses of Madeira, and practised all sorts 
of artifices to conceal some frightful yawns. 
He was not sufficiently intimate with Fer- 
nand to say to him ; “My good friend, you 
understand nothing of love, and you do not 
know how to conduct yourself towards 
women but his derisive look expressed 
this thought in spite of him. 

When a deep-drawn sigh from Fernand, 
followed by a complete silence, announced 
the conclusion of this tale — by no means 
entertaining to his e{)icurean listener — 
Luigi breathed more freely, and finished the 
bottle of Madeira as a token of extraor- 
dinary rejoicing. 

“ It must be confessed,” said the Prince, 

“ that your Valerie has very bad taste, and 
that you have too much sense to think any 
more about such a foolish affected creature. 

I will introduce you to a princess who will 
very soon make you forget her, — an old 


friend (not more than seventeen years at 
most), of splendid beauty, accomplished, 
who dances the tarantella like Elsler, and 
sings a cavatina like your Cinti, — in short, 
a peerless creature.” 

“ Much obliged,” replied Fernand, but in- 
differently satisfied with the consolation ; 
“ I appreciate your tastes, but I have not 
yet reached the elevation of your knowl- 
edge. If you wish to amuse me, take me 
into society, present me to some beauty less 
eccentric and more civilized, and I shall 
endeavor to like her. As for love, that is 
past for ever !” 

“ That’s what we say, at all events,” re- 
plied Lucchesini, bursting into a loud and 
merry fit of laughter; “we bid adieu to 
love, and we recall it in a few days after. 
It is just the same with wine : the day after 
a debauch, when we have a headache, we 
swear never to drink more, and before sun- 
set we are again as bad as ever. You may 
be assured that I shall be both happy and 
proud — is not this the proper expression? 
— to introduce you to Naples society, but 
I must tell you beforehand that things are 
not managed here as with you. All our 
prettiest women are already strictly pro- 
vided with cicisbeos^ and we still retain the 
prejudice of fidelity — except in marriage, be 
it always understood. In a country where 
a liaison is not an episode, but the history 
of a whole life, birds of passage are dis- 
trusted.” 

Lucchesini was right, and Fernand was 
obliged to acknowledge it in the end. Ac- 
customed to life in Paris, — a town where 
there is the greatest amount of intrigue with 
the least quantity of love — where, with a 
woman of the world, a first weakness is 
considered as the presage and the prelude 
to other faults,— D’Arville was astonished at 
a spectacle so new to hitn. The exclusive 
love, the unlimited devotion, the absence of 
all coquetry, which form the principal dis- 
tinctive traits in the character of an Italian 
woman, at first caused him inexplicable sur- 
prise ; but he afterwards understood that 
the evil of these liaisons finds some excuse 
in the result of marriages contracted for the 
most part in childhood, and consequently 
destitute of sympathy, of affection, even of 
modesty, and which condemn to loneliness 
young ardent heads and passionate hearts, 
who understand existence tli rough love alone. 

Although this a])sence of coquetry may 
perhaps be praiseworthy, it must be ac- 
knowledged that it gives to all Italian so- 
ciety a general tinge of coldness and monot- 
ony by no means agreeable to a foreigner, 
who naturally takes an interest in all these 
connections. 

How vivid soever the recollection of Va- 
lerie remained in Fernand’s heart, it would 
not be too rash to suppose that, if the young 
poet had found a conquest worthy of his 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


45 


merit, he would have succeeded in forget- 
ting the new Lady Melrose. Chance de- 
cided otherwise ; and nevertheless Fernand 
did not attribute it to the honor of his 
fidelity, imagining, on the contrary, that it 
had resisted the greatest temptations. 

D’Arville had received a good education, 
and possessed an enlightened taste. He 
could appreciate the fine arts of which 
Naples is the country, and for some time he 
found in these resources precious food for 
the activity of his imagination. After hav- 
ing amply explored all the treasures con- 
tained in the palaces and museums, he ex- 
tended his investigation into the neighbor- 
hood of the town. He devoutly visited the 
ruins of Pompeii and the temple of Paestum, 
— he examined the crater of Vesuvius, — he 
wandered by the perfumed shores of Sor- 
rento and Oastel-a-Mare. In the evening he 
was to be seen at the Opera or at the 
Casino ; everywhere he souglit for forget- 
fulness — that dream of the unhappy ! — and 
everywhere recollection still pursued him. 

Fernand, who, from his residence at Les 
Charmettes, had preserved very sincere relig- 
ious feelings, though he made no parade 
of them, often visited the church of St. 
Januarius. He was not one of those so- 
called free-thinkers^ who believe they are so 
sure of themselves and of their future hap- 
piness as to be able to dispense with the 
hopes and consolations which faith supplies. 
In exploring tlie depths of thought he had 
been convinced that God had formed the 
soul on a plan too vast for it to rest con- 
tented with the ephemeral and transitory 
enjoyments of a perishable world. Immor- 
tality alone seemed to him capable of satis- 
fying that which is immortal. Fernand 
never entered “ the house of God ” without 
experiencing profound emotion. The har- 
mony of the sacred music, — the half-twilight 
mysteriously diffused through the arched 
roof of the church, — the vague odors of the 
incense, whose warm perfume enervates the 
heart and subdues the senses, — the sight of 
rich and poor kneeling together, and uniting 
in common prayer, — all the mysteries of a 
religion sublime in the glory of its triumph 
as in the depth of its humility,— struck the 
imagination of the poet, and filled his ex- 
citable soul with exaltation. 

It was Christmas-eve. Never had the 
magnificent liturgy of the Vespers appeared 
to Fernand more affecting or more sublime. 
It seemed to him that those divine melodies 
penetrated to the very recesses of his soul. 
The holy image of his sister (for holy she 
had remained in his recollection, notwith- 
standing her last confession) rose before 
him, pale and shadowy, with that express- 
ion of tender reproach which he had so 
often observed at Les Charmettes. It seemed 
to him that he loved still more tenderly that 
unfortunate sister with the failings of a wo- 


man, — which drew her nearer to him — than 
if she had been clothed in the austere maj- 
esty of a virtue without blemish. While 
he reverenced her he bewailed her misfor- 
tune, and execrated the unknown man 
whose odious wickedness had sullied so 
much innocence, and destroyed a destiny 
which might have been so happy. With all 
the energy of his soul Fernand invoked 
chastisement on the cowardly seducer. But, 
alas ! his arm Avas powerless to avenge his 
sister, since she had mercifully carried the 
guilty man’s secret with her to the tomb. 

Fernand was lost in these reflections when 
his attention was aroused by the sound of a 
stifled sob. He turned round, and saw a 
woman not far from him kneeling before 
the altar of the dying Christ. This woman 
was enveloped in a large black cloak, her 
countenance was partly concealed by a thick 
veil, and she seemed desirous of avoiding 
all observation. With her head mournfully 
inclined on her chest, her hands clasped 
with fervor, she was absorbed in prayer. 
Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, and, 
from time to time, she raised her eyes to- 
wards the image of the Man-God with a 
look full of supplication and of grief. 

Slight as was this movement it partly dis- 
arranged the veil which concealed her coun- 
tenance, and gave Fernand reason to sus- 
pect that she was a young and beautiful wo- 
man. We may Avell imagine that this dis- 
covery was not of a nature to diminish the 
interest which the religious fervor of the 
unknown aroused in him. 

When the mass was over the veiled female 
waited for the crowd to disperse, then, 
wrapping her cloak around her, she pre- 
pared to depart, when for the first time her 
looks met those of Fernand. She instantly 
lowered her eyes, and a slight blush ani- 
mated the deadly pallor of her countenance. 
The look of the unknown — who seemed to 
be a young girl of sixteen or seventeen years 
of age — was so sad, so suppliant, that Fer- 
nand, in spite of the feeling which attracted 
him towards her, dared not follow her. He 
would have blushed to take advantage of 
the loneliness of a woman, to offer her a 
protection which she would probably have 
considered as in insult. 

This victory, obtained by a delicate dis- 
cretion, over a curiosity strongly excited, 
did not fail to occupy Fernand’s thoughts 
during the entire day, and it was with a 
vague but piquant interest that he took 
pleasure in reflecting on an incident which 
his imagination already colored with a mys- 
terious tint. He passed the evening in his 
apartment, and did not dream once of Va- 
lerie during the night. 

Next day he waited with some impatience 
his usual hour for going to the church of St. 
Januarius. He arrived there earlier than on 
former occasions, Avithout asking himself 


46 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


whether this eagerness to fulfil his devotion- 
al duties was really an effect of his piety, or 
the desire — perhaps the hope — of again find- 
ing tlie veiled woman of whom he had ob- 
tained a glimpse the day before. 

She was there, indeed, in the same place, 
and, by the sudden blush which tinged her 
cheeks as soon as their looks met, he per- 
ceived that she on her part had observed 
him, and that she did not see him again 
without a certain degree of embarrassment. 

This somewhat romantic concurrence of 
circumstances was sufficient to exalt the 
imagination of the young poet. A thousand 
fantastical thoughts, a thousand chimerical 
suppositions, were at once at work in his 
brain, and he had already sketched a ro- 
mance, in which the beautiful incognita 
figured as a princess in disguise. 

For many days he restrained his ever- 
increasing curiosity, scrupulously adhering 
to the part of a discreet admirer which he 
had imposed upon himself. Every evening 
he met the young veiled girl in the church ; 
they interchanged a few rapid but expressive 
glances; then, ostensibly giving way to his 
feelings of respect, he allowed her to depart, 
without attempting to follow, or even to 
speak to her. 

These silent meetings, without awakening 
any very lively sentiment in Fernand’s 
heart, imparted some interest 4o his soli- 
tary existence. He awaited the hour of 
vespers with an impatience which was not 
without its charms ; he paid more attention 
to his dress ; on arriving at St. Januarius his 
heart beat quicker, and if by chance the un- 
known was not in her accustomed place, he 
felt uneasy, almost angry. 

It was certainly not love with which Fer- 
nand was affected, nor even passion. In 
the half twilight which prevailed in the 
church he could only guess at the beauty, 
the details of which escaped him : and then 
the solemnity of the place, the sublimity of 
the service, the recollection of Inez — that 
saint who was looking down from heaven 
upon him ! — all united to purify this new- 
born affection. He would have considered 
that he was committing a kind of sacrilege 
if he had dared to give way to guilty 
thoughts in the presence of that pious young 
girl, kneeling before the altar, and shedding 
blessed tears, which could not be tears of 
repentance. But he endeavored to guess 
the source of tliose tears. What sorrows or 
afflictions could have assailed so young and 
beautiful a creature ? For this fervent piety 
must conceal some great misfortune : it is 
so seldom — poor ungrateful beings that we 
are ! — that we seek God whilst anything re- 
mains to us on the earth. 

While this veiled female thus prayed and 
wept at the altar’s foot, the pallid hue of 
her countenance, the ebon darkness of her 
hairy the languor of her black eyes, vaguely 


recalled Inez to Fernand’s recollection. She 
was suffering, and a bond of mysterious 
sympathy seemed to establish itself between 
them — a freemasonry of grief, as it were. 
Fernand’s ambition was to become the con- 
fidant, the protector, of that poor lonely wo- 
man, and to receive from her some token of 
innocent friendship in return for this tender 
solicitude. 

Fernand had avoided conversing with 
Lucchesini concerning his visits to the 
church of St. Januarius. The instinct of sen- 
sibility informed him that Prince Luigi 
would laugh at his prudence, and would, 
perhaps, persuade him by his raillery, to at- 
tempt some foolish proceeding, in order to 
clear up the mystery with which the un- 
known was surrounded, — a sweet mystery, 
full of a charm which reality perhaps would 
destroy. 

Three weeks elapsed without the least 
incident occurring to modify Fernand’s posi- 
tion with regard to the young veiled girl, 
when one evening he found on the seat 
which he usually occupied a white camellia, 
on the stem of which was knotted a long 
tress of black hair. This gift could have 
come only from the unknown, and the young 
man’s heart palpitated vii)lently on seeing 
her seated within a few feet of him. 

But it was in vain he attempted to meet 
her glance: she did not turn her head to- 
wards him for a single instant. This affec- 
tation of unusual reserve, after the expressive 
present which she had just made him, ap- 
peared to Fernand misplaced coquetry, and 
in equivocal taste. He resolved not to al- 
low himself to be deceived by any false ap- 
pearances of modesty, but to follow up this 
adventure which promised to become so 
exciting. 

This was during the short days of winter. 
At this period of the year it is dark before 
vespers are over, and Fernand could follow 
the unknown without being observed. The 
young girl left the church without looking 
towards Fernand, and glided swiftly along 
several dark and naTrow streets. After 
many windings she stopped before a house 
of mean appearance, and entered therein. 

On the threshold of the door was seated 
one of those women who sell maccaroni in 
the streets to the indolent Neapolitan lazza- 
roni, as is the custom of the country. She 
saluted the young girl as she passed with 
respectful kindness. 

Hitherto everything Fernand had seen 
was, it must be acknowledged, of a nature 
to give rise to somewhat strange supposi- 
tions with regard to the object of his in- 
vestigations. 

Notwithstanding the desire which he felt 
to preserve the entireness of his illusions, 
his suspicions were forcibly aroused when 
ho saw this young girl wandering alone in 
the streets at night, and finally disappearing 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


47 


in a narrow lane ot more than suspicious 
aspect. The poignant jealousy whicli gnawed 
his heart suddenly revealed to him the ex- 
istence of a sentiment more profound than 
he had suspected until this moment. 

Determined at whatever cost to know the 
truth, which he instinctively dreaded, Fer- 
nand boldly accosted the woman, who, at 
first sight, taking him for a hungry customer, 
prepared to serve him, expatiating to him 
at the same time with all the volubility 
of her country on the perfection of her 
culinary art. It was not without some diffi- 
culty that he at last got her to listen to 
him. 

“Put down your maccaroni!” cried he; 
“what I want is the name of the young 
woman who has just entered here. You 
know her, since you have saluted her.” 

“ Excellenza, no !” replied the old woman, 
without hesitation ; “ I do not know her ; 
but I do know she is an angel of Heaven.” 

Fernand’s countenance cleared up. 

“ Tell me all you know about her,” con- 
tinued he, slipping a piece of silver into the 
old woman’s hand. 

Tlie maccaroni vender approached the 
coin to her eyes, which could not distinguish 
it in the durkness ; she poised it in her hand 
several times, to judge of its weight, and 
then put it in her pocket. 

“You must know, then,” said she, “that 
in this house lives a poor woman, who lost 
her husband during the cholera. Her only 
son is ill of a malignant fever, and as she is 
obliged to go out to earn her bread, she is 
necessitated to leave him quite alone in this 
Bad state. Well, this excellent young lady 
who has just gone in gives the poor woman 
the means of following her employment, and 
every day she takes the mother’s place by 
the sick son’s bed. How she has discovered 
their unfortunate situation I cannot tell you, 
for no one here knows it. When the widow 
asked her name, in order that she might 
pray to the Blessed Virgin for her, the sig- 
norina bent down her head, and tears filled 
her beautiful eyes, so sweet and so sad !” 

“ Generous hearts,” replied Fernand with 
warmth, “ do good in secret, and not from 
ostentation. And so, my good woman, this 
charitable lady supports the indigent widow 
and the sick orphan ?” 

“ As for that, my good sir, I cannot tell 
you. I do not believe that she is very rich, 
although she pays the rent of the little room. 
She appears grieved that she cannot do 
more, and yet the dear lady risks a very dif- 
ferent thing — her health and her life ; she, 
80 young and so beautiful that it does my 
old eyes good to see her. May the Blessed 
Virgin shield her from all harm !” 

Fernand was much affected. He felt 
ashamed of the suspicions which he had so 
lightly admitted of the purity of this young 
girl, 80 charitable and so pious. Yielding 


to the power of the re-action in his ideas he 
was almost tempted to await her re- appear- 
ance, in order to ask her pardon on his 
knees, as if for a bad action of which he ac- 
cused himself in the depths of his soul. Ho 
flung the maccaroni vender another piece of 
money and departed, full of respectful ad- 
miration for the humble and unknown 
devotion of this young girl, who, at the risk 
of her life, fulfilled the duties of Christian 
charity. 

When he met her the following day at 
church, Fernand’s look expressed a senti- 
ment of tender veneration, and he never once 
thought of profaning her devotions by a 
culpable desire. He had been so many 
times deceived that he now wished to lin- 
ger in the realm of fancy, and prolong a 
dream full of charms for his romantic dispo- 
sition. 

But, as so frequently happens in life, the 
conclusion of this adventure was fated to be 
very diflerent from what it was possible to 
anticipate. 

Some days afterwards he went as usual to 
the church of St. Januarius. The place of 
the young veiled girl was occupied by an- 
other person. 

She returned no more. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

It was the king’s birth-day. The San- 
Carlo theatre was sumptuously lighted, and 
the boxes were filled with beautiful and 
magnificently dressed women. 

The opera was “ N’orma'"' that splendid 
page of an uncompleted existence. Fernand 
and Luigi, both enthusiastic lovers of good 
music, had come to hear the overture. Af- 
ter a few moments spent in looking round 
the honse, Fernand devoted all his attention, 
to the piece. 

The cantatricc who was enacting the 
part of priestess had comprehended its en- 
tire scope. She was not a demoniac, arti- 
ficially exciting herself, seeking vulgar ef- 
fects in furious cries and gestures, capable 
of excusing Pollio’s infidelity ; but the de- 
serted, betrayed woman, who, in the first 
fit of her despair, would annihilate the 
pledges of her guilty love, and destroy him 
who has undone her. The actress appeased 
with dignity the just anger of Norma, when 
she acknowledges that there remains to for- 
saken women but one revenge which does 
not debase them; happy still, if in dying 
they can carry with them to the tomb, a re- 
gret, a remembrance ! 

So noble was the profound indignation 
of that misunderstood soul, so truly grand 
was her resentment, so natural her despair 


48 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


when she sees her reproaches and her 
prayers ineffectual to move that heart of 
stone, that tlie entire audience overwhelmed 
the cantatrice with marks of enthusiasm. 

Fernand shared in the general admiration, 
his thoughts were completely absorbed in 
the interest of the piece and the wonderful 
perfection of its execution, when, on invol- 
untarily turning his eyes toward a woman 
who was alone in a box, he felt himself fas- 
cinated by that magnetic power which sub- 
jugates the attention and fixes the look 
to the look which attracts it. He thouglit 
he recognized the veiled female of the 
church of St. Januarius. 

It was indeed she ! His heart told him 
so no less than his eyes. Hitherto he had 
only seen her by stealth, and her beauty, 
which he had, so to speak, discovered, had 
for him all the attractions of surprise. 
Though he yielded to the charm of this un- 
looked-for meeting, Fernand wondered at 
the strange chance which, for the second 
time, presented to him in a theatre the object 
of a long search, as if large public assem- 
blies did not naturally offer such chances. 

This young woman’s beauty was of a type 
eminently Italian : masses of wavy and 
slightly curling hair, strongly marked eye- 
brows, and the upper lip shaded with a soft 
down, were its characteristic marks. The 
mouth — rather large than small, but well 
formed — when opened, displayed a set of 
teeth of dazzling whiteness: her brown 
skin presented that warmth of tone which 
captivates painters and betrays the delicacy 
of the tissue ; her rich, majestic figure form- 
ed an ensemhle which might have appeared 
somewhat masculine, had it not been tern 
pered by the exceedingly feminine express- 
ion of two large eyes, veiled by long lashes, 
whose humid and velvety look seemed to 
caress like a kiss. This look had something 
80 deep and penetrating that on meeting it, 
even for the first time, you would have said 
that it awoke tender recollections. It ex- 
ercised a sort of irresistible attraction, and 
presented, in its melancholy languor, a vo- 
luptuous mixture of weariness and ardor. 

Fernand would never have tired of con- 
templating this woman. She was indeed 
the pious frequenter of the church of St. 
Januarius, the benefactress of the poor; lie 
could no longer doubt it, and the prolonged 
attention which she bestowed on him showed 
that she also had recognized him ; but what 
a change in the exterior of the incognita ! 
The modest cloak and black veil were re- 
placed by a toilet more rich than elegant, 
the brilliant colors of which seemed chosen 
to take effect on the crowd, and concentrate 
their looks on the wearer. 

He remarked that this woman, alone in 
the church, was equally alone at the theatre, 
and that, contrary to the fashion of Italy, 
not a single visit had been paid to her box. 


At the first instant a thought of vanity 
crossed the mind of the young poet ; with- 
out much difficulty he constrained his 
modesty to suppose tliat this unknown 
woman, urged towards him by the myste- 
rious instincts of sympathy, had been drawn 
to San-Carlo in the hope of there seeing 
him ; but then, why should she enter an 
open box, and alone? However captivat- 
ing this idea may have been to his self-love, 
he was obliged to renounce it, and for the 
remainder of the evening he exhausted to as 
little purpose all the conjectures which his 
fertilc^magination suggested to him. Luc- 
chesini had left the box, and D’Arville 
awaited his return with impatience, to ob- 
tain from him the name of this extraor- 
dinary women which he no doubt could tell 
him. But Prince Luigi, engaged in an 
agreeable conversation, did not re-appear till 
the curtain fell, when he found Fernand 
mechanically carried forward by the crowd 
which was dispersing. 

Suddenly the young man felt his heart 
beat violently — he had just perceived the 
unknown under the peristyle, and he was 
endeavoring to conduct Luigi in that direc- 
tion, when, to his great astonishment, the 
latter quitted his arm and advanced towards 
the young girl, whom he accosted in a man- 
ner more than free. She grew pale when 
she perceived him ; in evident uneasiness 
she stammered forth some words which did 
not reach Fernand’s ears ; and casting on 
him a look full of most bitter anguish, forced 
her way through the crowd and disappeared. 

Fernand was almost petrified with aston- 
ishment. His reason refused to believe that 
this woman, who had appeared to him at 
St. Januarius like a celestial vision, and 
whose image, perfectly ideal, had been 
deeply engraven on his heart, was the same 
whom Lucchesini had just treated with so 
little ceremony. Nevertheless he had been 
so near them that doubt was impossible. 
The sorrowful look which she had turned 
on him in the moment of her precipitate 
departure banished every shadow of un- 
certainty. But who was this woman ? Did 
she go to the church in order to redeem the 
errors of a worldly life by the fervor and 
assiduity of her devotions? Did she fre- 
quent in secret the asylum of the })oor to 
obtain her pardon from Heaven by assuaging 
great misery ? Or were these external marks 
of piety and charity but a cloak of hypoc- 
risy which she employed to conceal her 
scandalous course of life ? Had she allowed 
Lucchesini to obtain an infiuence over her, 
and had the Prince abused it to her humili- 
ation ? 

The wavering uncertainty of Fernand’s 
thoughts was a real punishment to him, and 
yet he almost dreaded to exchange it for the 
truth, which might be the annihilation of 
I his dreams and his secret hopes. At length 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


49 


ne made an effort to subdue his emotion, 
and turned towards Luigi with as uncon- 
cerned an air as he could assume. 

“Who is that woman,” said he, “with 
whom you seem on such intimate terms? 
You have never spoken to me of her, and 
yet she is sufficiently beautiful for you to be 
proud of such a conquest.” 

“ Conquest ! my dear fellow,” replied the 
Prince, laughing ; “ the word does not al- 
together express the advantage of this ac- 
quaintance, and you are wrong to blame my 
discretion, for on your first arrival I spoke 
to you of this woman, without, however, 
mentioning her name. You have been act- 
ing the Cato ; you did not share my vulgar 
tastes in the pretty nymphs of Naples ; and, 
in faith, you have lost a fine opportunity of 
being consoled every day.” 

“ How ! this woman ” 

“ This woman, whom you ought to know, 
since you have been here four entire months, 
is the beautiful Giuditta Castelli, the glory 
of Italy.” 

“ An artist, without doubt.” 

“ An artist ! She is, indeed, in her own 
fashion. She dances the tarantella, she sits 
for a model in the studios, and her voice — 
ah ! my friend, what a voice ! Sometimes, 
on the occasion of extraordinary representa- 
tions, they get her to sing our Neapolitan 
airs, which she delivers with a brio of which 
you have no idea ; and as to her other tal- 
ents — ^ — But what is the matter with you ?” 
continued the Prince, on observing Fernand’s 
agitation; “you are pale, and your arm 
trembles within mine.” 

Fernand pretended it was the coldness of 
the temperature, and concealed, as well as 
he could, the sudden shock he experienced 
from Luigi’s cruel intelligence. 

“ Aha !” said the Prince, who in jest was 
touching on the reality, from which he be- 
lieved himself a hundred miles away ; “ I 
am talking to you of Giuditta, and I would 
lay a wager that this has not been the first 
time you have met her.” 

Fernand would not have dared for the 
world to confess to such a man as Luc- 
chesini, the assiduity of his visits to the 
church, or to confide to him the dispersion 
of his illusions. 

“ You have guessed right, my dear friend,” 
replied he, recovering himself as well as he 
could ; “ I have indeed met this beautiful 
girl several times, but I wager that you can- 
not guess where.” 

“ Oh ! everywhere, wherever such prin- 
cesses are to be seen, — at the promenade, at 
the masquerade, in a studio, or at a concert ; 
in the public squares even, for this she will 
sometimes do, when the waters are low.’’ 

“ I would have won my wager,” replied 
Fernand, laughing, with a forced and bitter 
air; “it was at church that I met this 
woman !” 


“And why not at church? I can see 
nothing so extraradinary in that. Has not 
our religion pardon for the guilty, and con- 
solation for the unhappy? God knows all 
is not '‘couleur de rose'' in the life of this 
poor girl, who sows around her more joy 
than she reaps for herself. A victim to the 
bad instincts of her brother, who is vice in- 
carnate, and of her sister-in-law, who is not 
much better, she is obliged to get money- 
no matter how — to avoid treatment of which 
you can form no idea. Look you, Fernand,” 
added Luigi, after a moment’s silence, “ you 
know that I do not lay claim to any very 
exquisite sensibility; well! I still tremble 
when I think of the moment I first saw this 
poor girl, who came to sell me her innocence 
and beauty of fifteen years for a morsel of 
bread ! I still see this unfortunate child on 
her knees before me, entreating my mercy.” 

Fernand’s whole body quivered with rage 
and indignation, but he did not interrupt 
the Prince, who was not conscious of this 
movement. 

“ What shall I say ?” continued he, in a 
sort of confusion ; “ I was in the midst of 
an orgie which blazed around and stupefied 
mo with its tumult. I was intoxicated, half 
delirious, without pity !” 

“Infamy!” muttered Fernand, gnashing 
his teeth. 

The Prince heard nothing, but went on, 
replying to his own reproaches and remorse 
of conscience. 

“ Yes ; I was cowardly, base; and do not 
like to dwell on this episode of my last 
ball.” 

Luigi passed his hand through his hair, 
and shook it, as if to drive away a trouble- 
some recollection ; then he soon recovered 
his thoughtless gaiety. 

“It must be acknowledged,” said he, 
“ that since this adventure, and that is two 
years ago, the little one is much improved ; 
now she will no longer fatigue you with her 
remorse. You will even find in her a cer- 
tain originality of character which may 
amuse you. To tell the truth, I did not 
know what had become of her for some 
time, and it was to ask her that I just now 
accosted her. We are to see her no more ; 
she has bid adieu to folly, and — who 
knows? — perhaps she is going to become 
a religious character.” 

Far from compassionating Giuditta’s fate, 
Fernand felt strongly irritated against her. 
He mentally accused her of having deceived 
him by the semblance of reserves and piety, 
and of having made him ridiculous by 
causing him to enact the part of an enrap- 
tured lover, whilst she perhaps welcomed 
the first man she met. So that when Luc- 
chesini offered to take him to her house, he 
did not endeavor to conceal the coldness of 
his refusal. 

“ To-day, as on my first arrival, I thank 


D 


50 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


you, and sincerely. Bad company has no 
attractions for me just now, and it is a taste 
which I do not wish to acquire.” 

“ Oh ! ho ! mio caro !" replied Lucchesini, 
almost seriously; “ how fastidious have you 
become. But do you wish that I should 
tell you what I think of your superb dis- 
dain ? It is, that this girl pleases you more 
than you choose to confess. And when I 
come to reflect on her sudden retreat, till 
now inexplicable, and the strange reception 
she gave me this evening — me, an old 
friend!— I am convinced there is a mystery 
at the bottom of it. Can it be possible that 
you are ashamed to acknowledge that you 
think our Giuditta beautiful ?” 

“Ashamed is not the word,” replied Fer- 
nand impatiently; “I do not deny her 
beauty, but ” 

“ But what ? let us see,” briskly interrupt- 
ed Luigi ; “ congratulate yourself, rather, 
on the freedom of her manners, and do not 
again go seeking here the subject of a ro- 
mance. As far as that goes, your Valerie 
ought to satisfy you. We have not now to 
do with tender and languishing imagina- 
tions, but with a downright fine reality. 
This once, accept simply an agreeable 
amusement, a charming caprice, a means of 
forgetting the coquette whom you have been 
BO silly as to love seriously. And then, my 
dear fellow, if I must tell you all, I thought 
that I remarked something strange and un- 
usual in the impression which you made on 
Giuditta, for I observed your glances, and I 
know what they are worth. Do you know 
that hers betrayed a preference of which 
you may be a little proud — ycs^ my dear 
fellow, downright proud ?” 

“You think, then,” replied D’Arville, 
with a smile of mingled irony and scorn— 
“you think, then, that Giuditta’s heart 
would be a very glorious conquest for me, 
and that I ought to be proud at finding 
something to glean in a field where your 
worship has not disdained to reap ?” 

“ I speak quite seriously,” replied Luigi ; 
“Giuditta affirms (and I believe her, for 
hers is a nature candid even to rudeness) 
that she has never experienced the least 
sentiment of love. She pretends that the 
horror of her first initiation into evil — this 
is not, as you may perceive, very flattering 
to me! — was so powerful, that from that 
moment she has felt nothing but aversion 
for our sex, which she associates with terri- 
ble recollections, and with a present full of 
humiliation. Who knows ? you are perhaps 
the happy mortal, the Pygmalion who is to 
animate this statue. It is, at all events, an 
adventure worth undertaking, and its suc- 
cess would have all the charm of an unfore- 
seen pleasure. Come, it is agreed !” cried 
the Prince, taking Fernand’s arm ; “ I shall 
introduce you to the terrible brigand, whose 
house serves as a home to Giuditta, if, in- 


deed, you are not afraid of having your 
throat cut in this haunt of thieves.” 

Mortally wounded anew in his sweetest 
imaginations, Fernand tried to escape Luigi’s 
offers by every possible excuse. However, 
the fear of arousing his sarcasms, perhaps a 
vague curiosity, or even the wish to humble 
her who had deceived hi in by false appear- 
ances of virtue, decided him to follow the 
Prince to the house of the Oastelli. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Beppo Castelli, at the time of his marry- 
ing Beatrice, having excellent reasons for 
not residing in a locality where his occupa- 
tions might be subjected to the importunate 
curiosity of prying neighbors, had bought a 
ruinous habitation in a remote, dark narrow 
street, on the confines of the city, where the 
breath and light of heaven seldom penetrat- 
ed. The worthy couple soon lavished the 
money and the sum they received for the 
jewels she had stolen from the old Duke of 
Spezia, and were driven to all sorts of dis- 
honorable expedients to maintain a preca- 
rious existence. Beppo was often absent, 
and it was currently reported tliat he had 
joined a band of brigands who infested the 
Abruzzi mountains ; a supposition which 
was materially strengthened by his always 
coining home with a replenished purse, 
which was invariably exhausted in a few 
days after his return in gaming, drinking, 
and every species of licentious dissipation. 

Beatrice exercised her ingenuity in an- 
other species of industry, telling fortunes by 
the cards, or according to the occult tenets 
of judicial astrology; but to this system of 
imposition on the credulous she added a 
trade of a darker, more mysterious dye, 
composing philters and noxious potions 
which sometimes saved the threatened hon- 
or of the female portions of certain noble 
families, and not unfrequently destroyed the 
lives of the patients who were rash and in- 
famous enough to use them ; but she took 
the prudent precaution of being well paid in 
advance, and never troubled her conscience 
in the slightest degree with the calamitous 
results that might ensue. From these and 
other equally illegal and abominable pur- 
suits she derived considerable sums of mo- 
ney, which invariably fell into her husband’s 
hands, and were squandered by him in the 
gratification of his reckless, extravagant de- 
sires. 

Poor Giuditta, driven from her early home 
by Monna Peppina’s cruelty, and half dead 
with cold and hunger, after passing a miser- 
able night upon the steps of the Lucchesini 
palace, had been reduced to seek an asylum 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


51 


at her brother’s house, and join her fate 
with his, for her late mother’s evil reputa- 
tion had rendered her admission into any 
respectable family impossible ; she left all 
hope behind her when she crossed the thresh- 
old of that abode of infamy and vice ; but, 
although several tempting establishments 
had been offered to her through Beatrice’s 
medium, she shuddered at the idea of pur- 
chasing wealth and temporary splendor by 
irretrievable dishonor, not only through her 
instinctive horror of a vicious course of life, 
but from the remembrance of her mother’s 
fate. The men who would fain have bought 
her favors became contemptible and hateful 
in her eyes, and she preferred penury, hu- 
miliation, and the independence of her life 
to a luxurious slavery, although passed in 
golden chains. 

After finding their way with considerable 
difficulty down a muddy, filthy street, and 
tumbling continually over small heaps of 
infectious abominations that “came be- 
twixt the wind and their nobility,” D’Ar- 
ville and Luigi arrived at a dirty two-story 
house, and the latter, laughing heartily at 
his friend’s repugnance to proceed with the 
adventure, knocked loudly at the door. 
Some time elapsed before any one responded 
to the noisy summons, and then Beatrice 
came down, for both her husband and her- 
self made it a rule never to admit visitors, 
neither by night nor day, without having 
first carefully ascertained their character 
through a grating in the upper story, 
whence they could see perfectly who sought 
them, and remain concealed themselves. 
Beppo’s absence on one of his predatory ex- 
cursions now rendered this precaution 
doubly necessary. 

Beatrice recognized the Prirme at once, 
and descended as fast as her obesity would 
permit her, for, although she was still 
young, neither her face nor person presented 
any traces of that beauty which had render- 
ed her notorious for some years; always 
confined to the house, either from fear of 
the police, by her divinations and conjura- 
tions dire, or in preparing her accursed 
drugs or potions, all the elasticity of her 
former pliant figure had departed, and she 
had gained a large accession of unwhole- 
some flesh. Sensual excesses had cast a 
purple tint upon her bloated cheeks, her 
features were swollen and inflamed, and 
her once lustrous eyes were glazed and 
blood shot from continual intemperance, 
whilst the slovenly remains of what had 
been a robe a duchess might have worn, 
completed a revolting picture of physical 
and moral degradation. 

The room into which Beatrice ushered 
her visitors was a fitting temple for such a 
Bacchanalian priestess, j)resenting a strange 
admixture of luxury and poverty ; the silk- 
en furniture, which had once been of the 


most expensive and elegant description, was 
so stained and faded that it was quite im- 
possible to guess what its original color 
might have been ; the tattered remains of a 
Turkey carpet, with which the damp, rot- 
ting floor was partially covered, now only 
served to trip up those who attempted to 
pass over it ; the remnants of a coarse sup- 
per were seen upon some broken plates and 
dishes of rare porcelain ; and a small stream 
of fragrant liquor, that trickled from an 
overthrown bottle on to a table of rich 
marquetry, sufficiently accounted for the 
deep carnation hue of La Biondina’s cheeks, 
whilst a huge black cat glared her fiery 
eyes around as she crouched on a satin foot- 
stool, which Beatrice Oastelli had embroi- 
dered for the Duke de Spezia in the first 
days of their acquaintance, when the amor- 
ous dotard lavished his riches at her feet. 

Fernand could scarcely conceal the dis- 
gust he felt at finding himself in such a hid- 
eous habitation ; the fumes of ardent liquor, 
garlic, and many fetid exhalations common 
to the odious neighborhood, well-nigh 
choked him. He endeavored, by mute 
signs and the most expressive glances, to 
make Lucchesini understand his desire to be 
gone ; but the Prince, as perfectly tranquil 
and to all appearances equally satisfied in 
that foul den, as he had been, only one half- 
hour before, in the perfumed boxes, amidst 
the high-born damsels at San-Oarlo, pre- 
tended not to comprehend what his suffer- 
ing friend really meant, or at least remained 
perfectly insensible to his poignant woe. 

Beatrice, who loved to take her ease, and 
enjoy her supper and libations undisturbed, 
was somewhat vexed at the arrival of her 
noble visitors ; but as she thought it was 
most probable they had not come there 
without some special object, which would 
tend greatly to her pecuniary benefit, she 
effectually curbed her rising temper, saluted 
them courteously, and trying to modulate 
her voice to a bland, seductive tone, ex- 
claimed : 

“ I hope your lordship will forgive me for 
keeping you waiting so long in the street, but 
humble folks like myself do not expect no- 
ble visitors at this late time of night. What 
can I have the pleasure of doing for you, my 
lord prince?” 

Luigi bowed as profoundly as if he had 
been saluting a lady of the highest rank, as 
he replied : 

“ It is for us to make excuses, my worthy 
hostess, for trespassing upon your privacy 
at this untimely hour, but we have most im- 
portant reasons for troubling you, and you 
are sufficiently acquainted with the world 
to know that tliere are occasions when cere- 
mony must be put aside. This gentleman, 
one of my chosen friends, has seen the 
charming Giuditta, and lias fallen madly in 
love with her, and, as I happened to say 


52 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


that I knew the house that was honored 
with her residence, he insisted upon iny 
bringing him to the spot upon the instant, 
that he might see the beauty and make his 
declaration of imperishable attachment with- 
out further loss of time. Permit me to in- 
troduce my friend the Baron d’Arville,” — 
(then lowering his voice, so that Eernand 
could not hear the words) — “ a rich ambas- 
sador, who has lately come to Naples.” 

The only good feeling which now existed 
in Beatrice’s breast was that of devoted at- 
tachment to the lovely orphan. Giuditta 
had frequently saved her from Beppo’s 
drunken fury at the hazard of her own life ; 
her presence it was that prevented the 
neighbors from wreaking their vengeance 
upon the wretched couple, and thus Beatrice 
— acting under the influence of southern su- 
perstition — looked upon Giuditta as the 
guardian angel of that drear abode; in the 
frequent agonies of remorse she felt for her 
own lost happiness, she would implore the 
gentle girl to pray for her, and she fervently 
trusted that'^Giuditta’s contempt of luxury, 
and indifference to the glowing, specious 
flatteries with which she was assailed, would 
prevent her from falling into an abyss of deg- 
radation as deep and as hopeless as her own. 

Beatrice raised her eyes to Fernand’s face, 
as Luigi introduced him, and beheld his manly 
beauty with dismay, for the idea rushed 
through her brain that Giuditta, who hitherto 
had been so insensible to all the homage paid 
to her wondrous beauty, would not be able to 
resist the personal attractions of this young 
man, especially if backed by the thrilling 
eloquence of ardent love. She could not 
refrain from gazing on him, as he murmured 
some commonplace compliments upon the 
young girl’s beauty ; and when he stopped 
abruptly, she replied : 

“ Your Excellency does us great honor, 
and I will not fail to tell my sister of your 
kindness ; but unfortunately she is not at 
home at present, nor do I know when she 
will return ; and as my husband may come 
home at any moment, and may have been 
drinking, to say the truth, I fear ” 

“Fear nothing, my beauty!” cried the 
Prince ; “ am not I here to defend you, and 
this gallant Frenchman too ? Besides, good 
Beppo and I are on the best of terms and 
then whispered in her ear that there was 
money to be gained, for D’Arville was im- 
mensely rich, and over head and ears in love, 
he quietly took the candle from Beatrice, 
turned his back upon her, and walked with 
Fernand into the adjoining room. 

It was a low-roofed chamber, containing, 
by way of furniture, nothing more than a 
bed, destitute of curtains, a walnut-wood 
table, and a few rush-bottomed chairs, on 
which lay scattered several articles of female 
apparel, faded bouquets, a peasant’s costume, 
and a guitar. Fernand examined the con- 


I tents of the chamber most minutely, and 
was pleased to And that a lingering thought 
of heaven harbored still in the fallen angel’s 
bosom, for he beheld a cruciflx hanging be- 
tween two windows, and beneath it a minia- 
ture of a surpassingly beautiful young child. 
There was an indefinable something in the 
sweet soft features that reminded Fernand 
indistinctly of some one he had seen, and 
yet he could not tell whom, and he abruptly 
interrupted Luigi, who was singing, and ac- 
companying himself upon the guitar, by ask- 
ing him if he knew who the original of the 
exquisite painting was. 

“ She does not know herself,” Luigi sang, 
“ and yet she always wears it as an amulet. 
But,” he went on to say, as he laid down 
the guitar, “there is some mystery con- 
nected with it. Giuditta asserts that she 
found it attached to her dead mother’s neck, 
and I even think that I have seen it myself 
during the dear woman’s life. Is it not 
passing strange that Theresa Castelli, who 
would have pawned her own soul if she 
could have raised money upon it, should 
have preserved this bauble throughout her 
misery, when perhaps parting with it might 
have saved her life.” 

“There is no doubt,” Fernand replied, 
“ but that the most depraved creature has 
one thought in her heart she treasures as a 
holy relic, and which the deepest corruption 
cannot reach.” 

“ You shall talk to Giuditta about the 
miniature, and concoct some bright romance 
between you as to who the fair child is, for 
no doubt the rich ambassador, as I called 
you to La Biondina, will meet with a cor- 
dial welcome. Had my worthy friend Signor 
Beppo been present I should have hesitated 
before, giving you such an honorable title, 
for he would cut an ambassador’s throat as 
readily as that of the lowest menial in his 
Excellency’s suite. But now farewell, Fer- 
nand, I hear females quarrelling in the lower 
room, and so good night !” 

So saying Luigi left the room, and, profit-** 
ing by his knowledge of the house, gained) 
the street, whilst Giuditta ascended to her 
room. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

When Giuditta entered her own room, 
she threw her fan and mantle on one side, 
and advanced with a careless air to meet 
the “ rich ambassador,” whose visit to her 
Beatrice had announced ; but when she re- 
cognized Fernand she trembled violently, 
and turned deadly pale. 

Although D’Arville did not feel any very 
great emotion, he was not devoid of a cer- 
tain degree of nervous agitation. He cer- 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


53 


tainly -was not in love with the lovely un- 
known whom he had so frequently seen in 
the church of St. Januaries, but she had 
struck his fancy, and he had sometimes 
hoped to find in her society the means of 
drowning the remembrance of Lady Mel- 
rose. Her singular beauty had fascinated 
his fastidious taste, her seeming piety had 
excited his curiosity ; he had continually 
thought that chance might some day bring 
him and her together, and he had pondered 
as to how he should address her without 
offending her propriety, and how he should 
best act to secure an interest in her heart. 

And now, all these dreams were hurled 
at once into the dust. There they stood, 
face to face, in a den of foul corruption, the 
one hesitating as to the manner in which he 
should open the ignoble treaty, and the 
other ready to accept his proffers, however 
degrading they might be, — he blushing at 
finding himself in an abode of vice, and she 
despoiled of all her charms except that fatal 
beauty which had sealed her ruin. 

However, Fernand’s embarrassment was 
of a very short duration, his naturally care- 
less spirit soon regained its equilibrium, and 
he hastened to pay the girl one of those 
common compliments which form a portion 
of the stock-in-trade of a man who has 
mingled in the world. But, as she answered 
not, and remained standing, with her eyes 
cast down upon the floor, every muscle of 
her face working convulsively, and perfectly 
heedless of his flattery, Fernand looked 
rapidly round the room, fearing he might 
encounter the fleroe glance of some more 
favored lover. 

Seeing that his suspicions were unfound- 
ed, he immediately attributed Giuditta’s 
apparent coldness to some artifice to en- 
hance the value of her compliance, and, 
assuming an air of profound respect, he said, 
with a low sigh : 

“ Why do you turn from me, carissima? 
This is not the first time we have met, and 
I had hoped that the admiration with 
which you have inspired me had not escaped 
your notice.” Then taking the faded ca- 
mellia, encircled with a tress of ebon hair, 
from his breast, and presenting it to her, 
he continued; “ And— forgive my bold- 
ness !— I had deemed that this precious gift, 
which night and day has rested on my 
breast, had come from you.” 

Giuditta took the faded flower, pressed it 
long and fervently to her lips, and again 
dropped her lids in silence. 

Emboldened by this action of undoubted 
sympathy, Fernand seized the girl’s hands 
and covered them with kisses, whilst the 
contact of his lips thrilled through Giuditta’s 
frame like living coals. 

“ Adorable girl !” he said : “ why do you 
conceal yourself in this miserable abode ? 
What have I done to merit such disdain ? 


By Heaven ! I would give the universe for 
one kind look from your bright eyes !” But 
still the Italian did not speak. 

Irritated at the obstinate silence she pre- 
served, despite the adulatory words he 
poured into her ears, and not wishing — for 
the second time in his life — to play the part 
of dupe, Fernand used some gentle force in 
removing Giuditta’s hands from before her 
eyes, which swam with tears ; he then 
essayed to cast his arms around her, but she 
sharply removed his hands, drew a small 
stiletto from her girdle, and assumed an 
attitude of desperate defence. 

Fernand remained in mute astonishment, 
and wondered what could be the reason of 
this sudden demonstration of aversion on 
her part — what mysterious circumstance 
could have wrought the change of the senti- 
ments she had always shown towards him ! 
Was it a paltry petty trick to recover the 
ground she had lost, or was it the souvenir 
of some earlier attachment ? Was she obey- 
ing the instincts of natural coquetry, or fol- 
lowing a line of conduct marked out for her 
by Beatrice to captivate the “ rich ambassa- 
dor?” Whatever the reason of her unex- 
pected repugnance might be, Fernand’s 
curiosity and vanity were piqued, and he 
resolved to go through this strange ad- 
venture. 

Giuditta stood flrmly poised, the stiletto 
glittering in her upraised hand, with flash- 
ing eyes and glowing cheeks, and the tresses 
of her hair, which the struggle had dis- 
arranged, falling like a rich mantle on her 
alabaster shoulders. Fernand gazed at her 
with the admiration a true artist feels before 
a masterpiece of art; but presently his 
words found vent, and he exclaimed : 

“ I feel, with the deepest pain, fair crea- 
ture, that I have been deceived, and that 
far from having the felicity of pleasing you, 
I have become, unwittingly, the object of 
your aversion. In making it known to mo 
so unequivocally, you have cruelly chastised 
the boldness that induced me to come here. 
I have no right to complain, Giuditta, and 
yet I cannot refrain from saying that your 
disdain is a source of deep humiliation to 
me.” 

As D’Arville pronounced these hypocrit- 
ical, well-got-up phrases, in a tone as re- 
spectful as if he were addressing a duchess 
amongst the elite of the Faubourg Saint- 
Germain, the girl became much agitated, 
her bosom heaved, and the big tears coursed 
down her cheeks like rain. After considera- 
ble irresolution she threw the stiletto from 
her, and approached Fernand. 

“ I was wrong,” she said, passing her hand 
across her brow ; “ excuse a moment’s folly. 
I am — I recollect it now — Alas ! too well ! — 
I am nothing but a poor girl, born to dis- 
honor and disgrace. You seek me, signor — 
what would you with me ?” 


54 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


There was something so exquisitely mourn- 
ful in the unhappy creature’s voice, — an 
expression of such concentrated misery in 
her look, — a humiliation so deep and bit- 
ter, — that Fernand’s better feelings were 
aroused. 

“ Fear nothing from me,” he said frank- 
ly ; “1 will abide by your refusal, and will 
not attempt to control your will. Fare- 
well!” 

The Castelli again took his hand, and pas- 
sionately poured forth her thanks. 

“ Really, said the young man, 

rather piqued, “ this extravagant joy is any- 
thing but flattering to my poor self. Seeing 
that you are so rejoiced at ray departure, 
may I inquire whether the magician Bea- 
trice has metamorphosed me into some 
hideous monster, that I have inspired you 
with so much hatred ?” 

“ Hatred, signor !” the girl replied, whilst 
the tears burst out afresh ; “ Oh, can you 
think I hate you ?” 

“ Then why this tragedy ? Speak candid- 
ly, and you will And in me a friend ready 
and willing to protect you!” 

Although Giuditta was but a poor girl, 
lost at fifteen years of age by a combination 
of fatal circumstances, she had lived a life 
apart from the depraved associates into 
whose company she had been thrown ; she 
had had her reveries of gaining a station in 
society, she had dreamed of happiness and 
honorable love, and had preserved the nat- 
ural elevation of her thoughts in the midst 
of prurient infamy. 

By constantly visiting the poor, and at- 
tending at the churches, she had vainly en- 
deavored to still the whisperings of her con- 
science; but she wanted stability in the res- 
olutions she was ever making, and remained 
under the dominion of Beatrice with all the 
carelessness of her youthful years and coun- 
try. The sight of Fernand, when she first 
beheld him, suddenly revealed to her all the 
horrors of her true position ; with what un- 
speakable delight would she have given the 
wealth of either Ind to have been pure and 
undefiled, worthy of inspiring in his heart 
the thousandth part of the strong love that 
bounded in tier own She knew herself ca- 
pable of loving — not with that love which 
is limited to the gross gratification of the 
senses — but with that ardent sublimated de- 
votion, like the self-disinterestedness of a 
fond mother which is an emanation from 
above. She felt such joy at seeing him, in 
praying for him, and being by his side; she 
had placed him in her heart-of-hearts, as 
the guardian angel of her young hopeless 
life, as the holy influence that should as- 
suage her misery and bring her back to 
God. Her only desire, her ambition, was to 
dedicate her whole life, her beauty, and lier 
youth to him ; to hover over him with her 
love, and when she had exhausted her be- ! 


ing in his service, then to die happy at his 
feet. 

And now to lose him was to lose life, 
soul, and heaven itself! 

“Signore,” she murmured, in a stifled 
voice, and falling at his feet ; “ have you not 
perceived the fearful struggle that has been 
passing in my heart? Cannot you conceive 
my horror at the feeling that has brought 
you here? Oh! unhappy that I am, 1 love 
you! It is madness, — for a lost wretch like 
me has not the right to say she loves ; and 
yet the humble flower of the field expands 
its bosom to the sun and lives in its bright 
rays.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

Gitjditta’s face, animated by the sincerity 
of her love, bore an intensity of expression 
that produced a great impression upon Fer- 
nand, and carried him beyond the bounds 
of prudence and of reason. With mingled 
admiration, tenderness, and pity, he raised 
her from the floor, and pressing her to his 
bosom, said, as a tear bedewed his eye : 

“And I, beautiful girl! will love you too. 
You have suffered unmerited affliction far 
too long : I will be your protector, your 
friend, the author of your future happi- 
ness.” 

The girl was about to reply with all the 
fervency of her southern clime, when a 
confused noise of trampling and voices was | 
heard in the adjoining room ; her face 
paled, she trembled in every limb, placed 
her finger on her lips, and moved gently to 
the door. i 

Fernand sat down quietly on a chair, 
marvelling at the expressive pantomime, 
and what the result of it might be. Terror 
and despair were painted on Xlastelli’s face, j 
the pains she took to conceal her very I 
breathing showed that some imminent peril I 
was at hand ; but, after a few moments’ | 
silent astonishment, D’Arville rose to as-r 
certain the cause of lier distress, and was|j| 
about to speak, when Giuditta glided noise- K 
lessly towards him, and placed her hand 
upon his mouth. 

“My brother,” she whispered, in so low 
a tone that Fernand could scarcely hear her, 

“ is in one of those fits of fury which some- 
times overpower him when — when — his 
journey has been unsuccessful. For the 
love of Heaven, have pity on me, and if he 
should attempt to enter here, retire as 
swiftly as you can 

The affrighted girl had not time to con- 
clude the sentence, for some heavy body 
was precipitated violently against the door, 
which soon yielded to the shocks, and the 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


55 


robber Beppo, armed to the teeth, stood in 
the doorway of the room. 

The brigand had not acquired the large 
booty he had anticipated in the murderous, 
pillaging expedition in which he had been 
engaged ; several of his comrades had been 
shot and taken prisoners by the soldiery, 
who had long been in pursuit of the no- 
torious band ; and the rest had dispersed to 
seek a refuge in the mountains of Calabria, 
where Beppo had promised to rejoin them 
with his sister and his wife. The villain 
well knew that he would have much diffi- 
culty in persuading the two women to ac- 
company him on such an enterprise, and 
he had fortified himself with copious 
draughts of wine, to enforce his arguments 
and bend them to his will. 

Beatrice was comfortably asleep in her 
arm-chair, dreaming peacefully of the ex- 
quisite delights of ortolans and Cyprus 
wine, when she felt herself rudely shaken 
by a stalworth arm. She struggled to her 
feet, rubbed her drowsy eyes, and beheld 
her fierce husband standing — frowning and 
ursing fearfully — before her. The terror 
lie experienced instantly shook oflt the ef- 
L ects of the quantity of wine she had drank 
at supper ; she tried to appease Beppo by 
informing him that the Prince Lucchesini 
had brought into the house a rich ambas- 
sador, who was desperately in love with 
Giuditta, and that she had contrived an in- 
terview between him and the girl. 

“ He is there,” she whispered, pointing to 
the adjoining room, with every mark of cu- 
pidity upon her face ; but the words had 
hardly left her lips before she would have 
given worlds to have recalled them, for, 
instead of allaying the brooding storm as 
she had hoped, she trembled as she saw 
the fell purpose that darkened Beppo’s 
brow, and gave an expression of indefi- 
nable horror to his handsome face. 

“ Ah, jyer Bacco he shouted, “ here, 
then, is one who shall pay me for the es- 
cape of all the rest. I will leave his body 
here to amuse the sUrr% and before they 
can be upon my heels we shall be well on 
our way to the caverns in Calabria. Si- 
lence !” he said, as she made an imploring 
gesture ; “ now I have him sure, — the 
scoundrel who would decoy the chief means 
of our support, our bread-winner,— she, 
who you say prevents the lightning from 
setting fire to the house. Oh ! ho ! Prince 
Luigi Lucchesini, let me have you at the muz- 
zle of ray carbine, and I’ll return you my 
thanks for so often advising Giuditta to 
leave us in the lurch!” 

“ For the love of the Holy Virgin, Beppo, 
do not kill him in our house — he is so young, 
so handsome !” 

“You would protect him, too, shameless 
woman, would you ? You too are in league 
with Lucchesini to betray me? Stop, my 


gentle Madam, and you shall see what a 
handsome corpse I’ll make of your young 
handsome man 1” 

Uttering these words, Beppo rushed 
against the door of Giuditta’s room and 
kicked it fiercely. Beatrice placed herself 
before him, but he threw her roughly from 
him ; another furious kick knocked out the 
staple of the lock, and Beppo and Fernand 
stood face to face I 

A frightful idea at that moment took pos- 
session of the young Frenchman’s mind ; he 
thought himself the victim of a stratagem, 
and that, lured by the artifices of a lovely 
girl, he was in a den of robbers where he 
would infallibly be plundered, and most 
likely murdered. But all reflection was now 
useless, his object was to defend his life ; so, 
seizing the stiletto that Giuditta had drop- 
ped, he advanced resolutely to meet the 
robber. At the sight of the glittering poig- 
nard that Fernand brandished^, the cowardly 
villain drew back, plucked one of his pistols 
from his belt, and fired. A deep groan was 
heard, then the fall of some substance on 
the floor, and D’Arville felt himself bathed 
in Giuditta’s blood, for the enamored girl 
had made a buckler for him of her breast, 
and received the bullet intended for his own, 

A hand-to-hand struggle instantly took 
place between the men, but Fernand pos- 
sessed the advantage of having practised 
fencing under a Parisian professor, and of 
being complete master of his weapon ; he 
easily parried all the brigand’s furious blows, 
and, having closed with him, lifted him up 
in his nervous arms and dashed him sense- 
less at his feet. 

But the victory had cost him dear, for the 
only trophy he could bear away was the 
bleeding body of the devoted girl. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Giuditta’s wound, although severe, was 
not mortal ; and, with the aid of the most 
skilful surgeons of the city and the tender 
solicitude of Fernand, she soon recovered 
from its effects. Notwithstanding the acute 
pain which she had endured, she looked 
upon those days of suffering as the most de- 
lightful she had ever seen, and beheld with 
regret that convalescence which would tear 
her from Fernand. 

So soon as she could be removed with 
safety, D’Arville engaged a suite of apart- 
ments for her, plainly but comfortably fur- 
nished, agreeably situated, and having a full 
view of the unrivalled bay. Nothing more 
was heard of Beppo, who was stated to 
have taken flight on the night of his contest 
with Fernand ; but it was remarked, that 


56 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


during the earlier part of Giuditta’s con- 
finement, when it was doubtful whether she 
would live or die, a Capuchin monk, whose 
hood concealed a face that better accorded 
with the character of a brigand from the 
Abruzzi than a peaceful member of a relig- 
ious community, was seen to lurk about 
Fernand’s house, and to make frequent in- 
quiries after the girl’s health. 

Some short time after La Castelli’s in- 
stallation in her apartments, and when her 
heart rejoiced in the amelioration of her 
condition, she received a letter in a dis- 
guised handwriting, bidding her be upon 
her guard, for that Beppo had vowed a 
deadly hatred to her, and swore he would 
take a terrible revenge ; but she only ridi- 
culed the menace, for what danger could 
assail her when sheltered in D’Arville’s 
arms. Proud of his love, and revelling in 
bliss till then unknown, she laughed the 
threat to scorn. Alas ! she knew not that 
he who cares not for his own life has that 
of his enemy always at his command, and 
that he never fails to consummate his ven- 
geance who will but bide “ his time.” 

But, during the delirium that followed 
Giuditta’s complete recovery, what was 
passing in fickle Fernand’s heart ? Did he 
fondly, truly love her, and had he totally 
forgotten Valerie? 

Devoid of occupation, far removed from 
the turmoil of politics, to which he had 
been so long chained, and momentarily en- 
chanted with the magnificent beauty and 
the all-absorbing, burning passion of his fair 
companion, Fernand passed his time almost 
wholly with her, and gave himself up to 
that dolce far niente which forms the great 
charm of Neapolitan existence. Never be- 
fore had he been loved with true southern, 
slavish devotion ; as yet no woman had 
ever regarded him in the light of a demi- 
god, and the handsome egotistic poet re- 
mained tranquilly upon the altar his wor- 
shipper had erected for him, whilst she 
adored him humbly on her knees. 

During the balmy soft Italian summer 
nights they floated in a light barque upon 
the glossy bosom of the bay. Giuditta 
would sing to him the plaintive melodies of 
her native land ; and, whilst his head re- 
clined upon her shoulder, half covered with 
the long tresses of her ebon hair, she felt 
supremely happy ; but it was a happiness 
based on materiality, not springing from 
the mind. His soul did not seek in hers 
that reciprocity of ennobling thought which 
casts aside the shackles of the senses, and 
gives to love its dignity ; he knew, before 
the liaison was formed, that this mutality 
of feeling could not exist between him and 
the lovely contadiiia^ but he was content to 
accept her homage as she was, — beautiful, 
confiding, and loving him as a Neapolitan 
of seventeen alone can love. However, he 


could not conceal the fact that, so far as a 
legitimate passion was concerned, her birth, 
and the unhappy circumstances attendant 
on her life, had placed an insuperable barrier 
between her and him. 

But as for Giuditta, she did not even en- 
deavor to analyse the impression she had 
produced upon Fernand, it was enough for 
her that she was loved ; no happiness could 
equal that of supporting his head upon her 
breast, of passing her taper fingers through 
the masses of his curling hair, and of seeing 
that he “ moved and lived.” Her heart was 
too full of ecstasy to ask for protestations, 
and it was a sacrilege to break the sweet 
silence of the night with even the melting 
words: “Hove!” 

Yet it must be avowed, that although 
softly pillowed on her bosom charms, it 
was not of her that Fernand thought, as 
they floated on the waters of the bay. No! 
his fancy still reverted to the Egeria of his 
dreams, and the aerial being would frequent- 
ly assume the shape of Valerie de Marignan. 
Satiety was gradually working its canker 
way within him ; he could not forget the 
antecedents of his mistress ; his liaison with 
her, instead of flattering, depressed him, for 
it had removed him from the great glitter- 
ing world in which he lived. Uneducated 
and inexperienced, Giuditta could not help 
occasionally amazing him with the abrupt- 
ness of her manners, — at every moment she 
would unwittingly shock the delicacy of 
his taste, — not that she was essentially vul- 
gar in her nature, but she wanted the ele- 
gance, tjie grace, the style possessed by 
women of the highest rank. 

Perhaps the greatest charm to D’Arville 
was, that he could break the connection 
whenever it should please him. Giuditta, 
it is true, had saved his life, and drawn upon 
herself her brother’s deadly hatred; but 
Fernand, who was imbued with all the folly 
and thoughtless frivolities of a Parisian life, 
was convinced that these considerations 
might be completely balanced by a sum of 
money, and, not anticipating the moment 
when coldness should arrive, he abandoned 
himself to the selfish happiness of being 
fondly loved, and lived from day to day 
without thinking of what in the course of 
things inevitably must take place. 

Fernand was at this moment the very in- 
carnation of perfect indolence ; there were 
none of his friends at Naples who could ridi- 
cule his engagement with a model of the 
studios and a singer in the streets ; he could 
listen at his ease to the sweetness of Giu- 
ditta’s voice, as her liquid strains rose 
sweetly to the empurpled evening sky, and 
he would then forget that they had been en- 
joyed for a few caHini by thousands of others 
on the public squares. At that moment he 
would contemplate that classically-shaped 
head, that lovely face, without thinking that 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


57 


its heavenly beauty had ever been profaned 
by the admiring regards of vulgar crowds. 

But since she loved Giuditta’s whole ex- 
istence had been transformed — renewed. 
Each morning she rose with heaven in her 
heart ; all nature seemed to smile upon her ; 
the sun beamed brightly for her alone, and 
for her a thousand flowers exhaled their 
sweet perfume. Oh! lovely beyond com- 
pare were the mornings of those days that 
promised her the presence of Fernand 1 She 
paid the greatest possible attention to her 
toilette, — she called to mind his taste, his 
last caprice, — and when her mirror told her 
that she was looking unusually well, she re- 
joiced that she was beautiful because her 
loveliness pleased him. When Fernand ar- 
rived, and she gazed upon him as he stood 
in all his manly beauty, it seemed to her as 
if the room had gained additional brightness 
from his presence, — he was her only treas- 
ure, her life, her soul, her god ! Her eye 
brightened as she looked on his ; she rushed 
towards him, and strained him to her heart, 
as if whole years had passed since they had 
conversed together the evening before ; then 
she would place a luxurious reclining chair 
for him by the window looking out upon 
the sunny sparkling bay, and sitting on a 
cushion at his feet, with her head placed all 
lovingly upon his knee, she would look at 
him through her silky lashes, as if she could 
never gaze too long, or love too much. 

And what did Fernand ? Suflfered him- 
self to be beloved, adored ; smiled at that 
artless love, which fed its flames with its 
own hearPs-blood, and thought that he re- 
paid it amply with his benignant smiles. 
Thus passed the summer and the autumn. 

Alas ! Poor Giuditta 1 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Winter had come, and with its return 
had brought to Naples a crowd of travellers 
in quest of health and agreeable amuse- 
ments : the private parties and public f4tes 
promised to be of the most brilliant de- 
scription, and the flrst open fancy ball had 
been announced. 

Hitherto, notwithstanding Giuditta’s im- 
portunities, Fernand had constantly refused 
to show himself in public with her ; but, as 
she was particularly fond of dancing, and 
did not wish to be separated from him a 
moment longer than she could help, she had 
urged her request so ardently that he had 
consented to take her to the ball. 

That afternoon it happened that he took 
a drive with Giuditta upon the Strada 
Nuova, much against his will, for he was 
out of humor at a letter he had received 
from the family at Charmettes ; and though 


his mistress was closely wrapped up in a 
shawl, with a large thick veil upon her 
head, and he endeavored to hide himself as 
much as possible by leaning back in the ca- 
lash, yet, as the hood was down, and the 
flneness of the day had brought numbers of 
the Neapolitan fashionables to the drive, he 
fancied he was the object of general remark. 

“ It will be impossible for us to come here 
again,” he observed abruptly; “it was all 
well enough during the summer, when there 
were but few visitors at Naples, but now I 
incur the risk of meeting some of my ac- 
quaintances. Most decidedly, Giuditta, we 
cannot come here again.” 

“ As you will, carissimo^" she answered, 
with ail that lightness of feeling with which 
she viewed everything that did not trench 
upon her love; “wheresoever you please: 
so long as I am with you, I shall be happy.” 

The calmness of the answer did not please 
the Frenchman, for at that moment his 
wounded vanity would have been glad of 
some pretext on which to found a quarrel ; 
but, although Giuditta was far from being 
endowed with that icy impassibility which 
characterized Madame de Lostanges, she 
was only vulnerable through the avenue of 
her heart, which could not be disturbed 
from its cairn contentment by trifling ebulli- 
tions of ill-humor. Noble natures can only 
be aroused by wounded honor or despised 
aflfection 1 

At the moment that Fernand leaned for- 
ward to 'order the coachman to return to 
Naples, an English-built britzska, drawn by 
a pair of thorough-bred horses, driven by a 
powdered coachman, and with two powdered 
footmen on the board behind, passed by, and, 
as he looked into the superb vehicle to see 
whom it contained, his eyes suddenly en- 
countered that enchanting face which was 
graven on his heart, and his lips invol- 
untarily pronounced the loved name of 
“ Valerie!” 

He leaned out of the calash, and strained 
his orbs to obtain another glimpse of her ; 
he forgot that the gentleman seated by her 
side was the husband of her deliberate 
choice, he knew only that she lived and 
that he loved her still, whilst Giuditta, who 
had heard the wild, hurried exclamation, 
felt it to be the death-stroke of her hopes. 
She had an indefinable presentiment, an in- 
tuitive revelation, that the languid aerial 
beauty she had caught a glimpse of, as the 
mettled steeds dashed by, was to bo her 
rival ; her eyes assumed a fixed menacing 
expression, and she turned to ask Fernand 
the cause of his emotion and the name of 
the woman who had raised such conflict in 
his breast; but as she was about to put 
these questions she shuddered and held her 
tongue, lest by his reply her suspicions 
should be confirmed. 

If, on the other hand, Fernand had been 


58 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


asked why the joyous exclamation had burst 
from him, he would have been puzzled to 
account for it. Certainly he had sutfered 
enougli through Lady Melrose to distrust 
any feeling the sight of her might cause ; 
but the heart never reasons, and sometimes 
we are tempted to believe that that little 
palpitating muscle in our breast is a fiend 
who drags us irresistibly to our ruin, ban- 
quets on our anguish, and lures us to do all 
those evil things which invariably recoil 
upon ourselves. 

After a long and painful silence Fernand 
threw a careless look upon Giuditta, whose 
presence he had quite forgotten. The ex- 
pression of her countenance displeased him ; 
this lovely creature, whose beauty had ap- 
peared to him superhuman, and whom at 
times he had even thought he loved, had 
fallen from her pedestal through his mo- 
mentary glance at Valerie, and became 
again the singer of the Chiaja, the sister of 
a murderer, the daughter of a notorious 
courtesan. 

He no longer saw fii her a devoted, ten- 
der girl, but a masculine Italian woman ; 
already his selfishness regretted the heavy 
debt of gratitude he owed her, and he basely 
calculated in his mind the sum that would 
be required to get rid of her, to break the 
only chain that withheld him from the pur- 
suit of Valerie. He forgot in one instant 
the generous disinterestedness of which she 
had given him so many touching proofs ; he 
asked himself what tale he should invent if 
Lady Melrose should inquire who the female 
was who was with him in the calash ; what 
would she think of such a liaison, and how 
should he explain to a virtuous woman the 
gross nature of those relations which do not 
compreliend one particle of love, which 
generally commence in sensual caprice, and 
are continued solely by the force of habit. 

The short route home was passed over in 
perfect silence ; and Giuditta having been 
set down at her apartments, Fernand walk- 
ed to the Villa Keale to cool his disordered 
brain. On his return to his own rooms his 
servant placed a letter in his hands, of 
which the folding, the superscription, and 
the scent caused an unspeakable agitation 
in his mind. He ran up stairs swiftly, tore 
open the letter, glanced at the signature, to 
ascertain whether his suspicions were cor- 
rect, and read the following lines: 

‘•No doubt. Monsieur, you will be much 
astonished at receiving a letter from me, 
and indeed, after all that has taken place, I 
must throw myself upon your kind indul- 
gence to excuse the liberty I have taken in 
writing to you. 

“ I will not revert to those events which 
separated us in former years ; I could ex- 
cuse the seeming sordidness of the part I 
then took, but in doing so I must throw the 
blame upon some relatives for whom I en- 


tertained the deepest affection and respect, 
and therefore I must for the present bear 
the weight of your displeasure, in the hope 
that some day you will extend forgiveness 
to me. 

“ If I were still that brilliant, gay, light- 
hearted Valerie that you once knew, I 
should not have the audacity to implore 
you to come to me ; but I am now merely 
a melancholy woman, broken in health and 
hopes, and bending beneath the yoke of an 
ill-assorted marriage. 

“ Oh, Fernand ! how different is my pres- 
ent dull existence to that delightful life I 
once vainly imagined I should lead with 
you ! 

“ I shall be this evening at the San-Carlo 
theatre; come to me there, and I will in- 
troduce you to Lord Melrose, who is a man 
of perfect taste, and will receive you cor- 
dially, for he likes the French. 

“ Do not refuse my request ; and think 
that — far from that country which we both 
regret — I am only an old valued friend. 

“ Valerie.” 

It might be supposed that M. d’Arvillo 
would pause and reflect how he could best 
reply to this off-hand invitation ; it might 
easily be conceived that proper pride and 
manly dignity would revolt against the idea 
of responding to the first appeal of a woman 
who liad basely betrayed him, and caused 
him such excruciating mental suffering! 
But no ! Fernand did not hesitate one sec- 
ond. He loved Lady Melrose still, and 
therefore pride was tamed and dignity was 
hushed: he should be happy near her! — 
and what man on earth has sufficient reso- 
lution to deny himself a pleasure! 

He wrote an answer immediately to Va- 
lerie, stating that he would pay his homage 
to her that evening in her box ; and having 
concluded the important operations of the 
toilette, he reclined on an ottoman, and 
gave way to his old habit of dreaming with 
his eyes wide open. He had entirely for- 
gotten Giuditta and his promise to take her 
to the ball, and it was only on her arriving 
in full costume that the unwelcome circum- 
stance came back to his mind. 

She wore a skirt of crimson satin, suffi- 
ciently short to show a pretty foot and 
ankle, and the lowest portion of a well- 
sliaped leg ; a corset of black silk-velvet en- 
closed her rounded bosom, unlike many of 
those of modern days which owe their 
chief attraction to the dressmaker ; and the 
thick masses of her raven hair were smooth- 
ed upon her brow, gathered up with brighb 
colored ribbons, and fastened with coral- 
headed pins. 

Had Fernand been in his usual careless 
good-humor he would have been delight- 
ed with this picturesque costume, which 
brought out the radiant beauty of the young 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


59 


Italian in so prominent a light ; but, taken 
up as he was entirely with the idea of re- 
pairing to Lady Melrose, the sight of Giu- 
ditta’s well-chosen peasant’s dress, recalling 
his engagement, was gall and wormwood to 
him. In fact, he was in a truly embarrass- 
ing position; every instant he remained 
away from Valerie seemed an age, and yet 
it was difficult — if not impossible — for him 
to be with her that evening. 

With a vanity quite pardonable at her age 
Giuditta remained standing silent for a few 
moments, expecting a compliment upon the 
choice of her costume; having promised 
herself the greatest possible pleasure in go- 
ing to the ball with Fernand, she had taken 
the utmost pains with her toilette ; the re- 
flection in her glass had told her the result 
of her care was satisfactory, and, as her 
lover had never seen her in a fancy-dress 
before, she had thought she should cause 
him an agreeable surprise. But, alas ! the 
surprise was for her, poor girl ! and her dis- 
appointment was severe indeed when, in- 
stead of D’Arville overwhelming her with 
praise, he cast his eyes carelessly upon her, 
and walked to the table on which dinner 
had just been placed. 

Women alone can properly understand 
and appreciate how distressing, how painful, 
the silence of the loved one must have been 
at such a moment; the doting girl was 
crushed ; she had tried to heighten all her 
charms for him, and now he turned coldly 
from her — it was too much to bear ! 

Fernand, whilst feigning to eat, was think- 
ing of far other things than Giuditta’s cos- 
tume'; indeed, he was aware of her presence 
only as a dream ; his thoughts were upon 
Valerie! His first, his fatal love fastened 
upon his heart so firmly, that he could not 
shake it off* ; it was true she had betrayed 
and basely abandoned him, but he loved her 
fondly, desperately still 1 

Alas 1 when did experience ever serve to 
point the way to human beings whose usual- 
ly acute perceptions are blinded by the snares 
of love '{ W hen passion bids us back to 
those paths already trodden, we invariably 
commit the same- fatal errors, without hav- 
ing the excuse of ignorance. We walk with 
open eyes towards the abyss which must in- 
gulph us, I’ree from the delusion of the 
bright flowers that formerly concealed its 
depth ; the past rises before us with its long, 
hideous, spectral train — friendship betrayed 
— forgotten love — perjured faith, and broken 
oaths — but the cup of oblivion has been 
drained to the very dregs, and the same 
mad scenes occur again. Like the parched 
traveller in the Desert, who mistakes the 
mirage for springs of delicious water with 
which he may allay his burning thirst, our 
hearts return to those phantoms that de- 
ceived our youth — “ even in our ashes glow 
their wonted tires !” — and in our downward 


path we still rave of those delirious mo- 
ments, those exceeding joys, once deemed 
to be cheaply purchased with our lives. 

The repast passed over in complete silence. 
Fernand could not help thinking, now-and- 
then, that it was cruel of him to deprive 
Giuditta of that pleasure which she had an- 
ticipated so fervently; but from his child- 
hood he had been in the habit of consider- 
ing no one^but liimself, of satisfying every 
wish, of gratifying every fancy, and now he 
had not the moral courage, the self-com- 
mand, to sacrifice his own pleasure for that 
of Giuditta. He was determined to see Lady 
Melrose at the theatre — no matter what 
might happen — and he reflected how he 
should best excuse himself to his mistress 
for altering his plan. 

When the dinner-service was removed he 
fidgetted, like all men when their con- 
science tells them they are about to commit 
a flagrant wrong. He walked up and down 
the room, threw himself upon the sofa, 
brushed his hat with his gloves, put it on 
and took it off a dozen times, until Giuditta 
— naively thinking his impatience corre- 
sponded with her own — passed her arm un- 
derneath his, and said : 

“Like me, dearest, are you not longing 
that the hour will come for us to go to this 
delightful ball ? Would it were here: it is 
now nine o’clock and the carriage has not 
arrived 1 But what is the matter with you, 
love?” she added, pouting slightly; “you 
look at me in a very singular manner, — and, 
now I think of it, you have not told me how 
you like me in this dress!” 

Fernand’s embarrassment increased ; he 
dared not repulse Giuditta, for he held all 
scenes in horror, and yet he had made up 
his mind that no human power should force 
him to the ball. Nerving himself ruthlessly 
to cloud the young girl’s happiness, he said : 

“ If I have not told you a million times 
this evening that you look supremely lovely 
in that dress, it is because I am in an abomi- 
nable humor. I did not say anything to 
you during dinner as I did not wish to an- 
noy you and spoil your appetite. I fully 
estimate the pleasure you promise yourself 
in going to this ball, a pleasure which I had 
hoped to share with you — and now, from 
the most vexatious circumstances, I am 
obliged to give up that happiness. The fact 
is, my angel, that my solicitor is compelled 
to return to Paris immediately ; he will set 
out at day- break, and, most unfortunately, 
has requested me to come to the hotel where 
he is stopping, at half-past nine this even- 
ing, that 1 may sign some papers that are 
absolutely necessary for him to manage my 
aflairs, I must devote some hours to him, 
and I assure you nothing can give me greater 
uneasiness than being forced to disappoint 
you.” 

The girl’s face lengthened at this cold- 


60 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


hearted, withering announcement ; her eyes 
filled with tears as she looked down at her 
costume, and Fernand perceiving them, 
added rapidly : 

“ But with all this worry of my private 
affairs, carissima^ I need not prevent you 
from going to this ball. I will write a line to 
Lucchesini, who will be delighted to escort 
you, and as soon as I can escape from this 
bore of a lawyer I will come to you.” 

This artful proposition, by which Fernand 
flattered himself that he had smoothed 
down all difficulties was precisely the cir- 
cumstance that awakened all Castelli’s jeal- 
ousy. As he had never allowed her to 
leave the house alone, she vaguely asso- 
ciated this sudden exhibition of indifference 
with the meeting of the lady in the English 
carriage ; she thought that as he was no 
longer jealous he no longer loved her, and 
the thought was death. 

“Signore!” she almost gasped, as her 
heart sank within her, and she touched 
his arm impressively ; “ I know you cannot 
tell a lie. Your agitation, your embarrass- 
ment, your incoherent words, all tell me 
there is some influence that prevents you 
from going with me to the ball — some secret 
that you will not disclose. See, Signore!” 
she continued, showing him a paper which 
she had twisted in her hand in the excess 
of her emotion; “this is the letter from 
your lawyer — and he expects you to-morrow^ 
for he is going to this very ball to-night !” 

Furious at being detected in an unblush- 
ing falsehood, Fernand caught up his hat, 
walked across the room, and turning round 
when he had almost reached the door rudely 
exclaimed : 

“ Whatever the true case may be. Madam, 
I presume I possess the right of disposing 
of my time as I think best. Am I your 
slave, that you should drag me where you 
please, and do you suppose that I will be 
the puppet of your will ? Know that, al- 
though up to this moment I have submitted 
to all your caprices, I will do so no longer. 
I will be absolute master of my own actions, 
and I give you the most complete liberty in 
return. 

Having uttered these killing words, Fer- 
nand rushed from the room without waiting 
for a reply, glad at having found a trifling 
pretext for his anger ; and bounding down 
the stairs, jumped into the carriage that was 
in waiting, ordered the coachman to drive 
him to San-Carlo, resolving to send the 
Prince to Giuditta if he should meet him 
there. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

When Fernand d’Arville entered the pri- 
vate box where the Earl of Melrose and 
Valerie were seated, he was so agitated that 
he could hardly pay the usual compliments 
to the Countess. His reception by her also 
was not devoid of emotion, but she con- 
cealed it under her haste to awaken her 
husband, who was completely asleep in one 
corner of the box. The Frenchman then 
saw that the reputation for good looks the 
English nobleman enjoyed was not unde- 
served, for he was tall, well-made, his com- 
plexion rather pale, eyes large and blue, his 
features regular, and his air and manners 
those of a man of perfect breeding and high 
birth. 

On hearing D’Arville’s name an irrepress- 
ible nervous expression passed over the 
Earl’s calm countenance. Fernand attrib- 
uted this internal struggle to his lordship’s 
remembrance of the relation in which he 
had formerly stood with Mademoiselle de 
Marignan. This demonstration in a civilized 
husband — a man accustomed to heat society 
— augured ill for Fernand’s future hopes ; 
but Melrose soon regained his habitual self- 
command, and interchanged with him the 
conventional compliments that never fail to 
accompany an introduction. The Earl spoke 
French fluently, but with that diffidence 
that generally characterizes an Englishman. 

After a few minutes’ general conversation, 
Fernand directed a scrutinizing look at Lady 
Melrose ; he saw that she was much paler 
and thinner than on his last interview with 
her at the Hotel de Marignan, and her 
angelic features bore the traces of deep suf- 
fering. Was it possible that she could have 
grieved for being absent from him ? Had 
she mourned his loss in the whirl of all 
those delights which her rank and wealth 
produced her? Had this sweet fragile 
flower pined in her yoke for want of happi- 
ness and love? Fernand’s egotism wished 
to, and did believe it ; for, notwithstanding 
his efforts to close his ears to the still small 
voice of conscience, he felt that he had be- 
haved ill to Giuditta, and endeavored to find 
in Valerie’s preference for him an excuse for 
his inhuman conduct, a shield against re- 
morse. 

The searching look he fixed on Valerie 
did not deceive him as to external facts, for 
she was certainly both paler and much 
thinner ; but, in supposing that these altera- 
tions — which in nowise affected her bright 
beauty — were attributable to her separation 
from him, he was wofully mistaken. 

Being of a very delicate constitution 
Valerie could not bear the dissipation of the 
London seasons. In direct opposition to the 
advice and remonstrances of the most cele- 
brated physicians, she persisted in going to 
balls, routs, dejeuners, races, and f^tes- 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


61 


champ^tre, and in light aerial drapery that 
was not at all suited to the cold and change- 
able English climate ; consequently she be- 
came so weak, that, at the end of the third 
season, and with the prospect before her of 
passing a dull winter at Melrose Castle in 
the frigid north, she acknowledged that her 
corporeal system required renovation, and 
consented to make a tour in Italy. It is true 
that Lady Melrose did not care about the 
natural beauties of that delightful country, 
nor the chefs-d''oiume of art that are to be 
met with there ; she only thought of 
heightening those slightly-faded charms to 
which the London “ exquisites ” had become 
somewhat inured, and she predicted a new 
reign of pleasure and fashionable repute on 
her return to London. 

Lady Melrose understood perfectly the 
freedom of action that can be indulged 
when a woman of high rank enjoys a solid 
moral character. On her first arrival in 
the English capital she sailed under the 
flag of maternal and matrimonial aifection ; 
she lost no public opportunity of testifying 
her anxious love for her handsome hus- 
band and her lovely boy, then two years 
old ; and these facts being incontestably es- 
tablished before a competent court — a jury 
of matrons of the 61 ite of the aristocracy — 
thereafter her flirting and coquetry passed 
for so many little childish ways. She was 
so very young, so delicate, so prettily red 
and white, that it was the fashion to treat 
her everywhere as a spoiled child; she 
blushed so modestly and just at the right 
place, and she spoke such charming broken 
English, that it was not astonishing to see 
the whole world — of London — at her feet. 
What could the poor woman do, without a 
will or even a wish of her own ? People 
would adore her whether she would or not, 
but she was so tenderly attached to her 
husband and her child, that there was no 
danger to her in that idle worship ! 

With this certificate of invulnerable char- 
acter, signed by the highest fashionable au- 
thorities, Valerie kept on her trifling with 
men’s hearts and women’s domestic peace. 
Any handsome man, moving in a good 
sphere, and enjoying a reputation for wit 
and talent, could present himself to her 
with a certainty of being favorably re- 
ceived; but he who was always honored 
with the most marked preference, the 
sweetest smile, the most languishing re- 
gard, was the husband or lover of some 
young, lovely woman, whose loss would 
drive her to despair. Her own heart was 
cold as death, but adulation was the life’s- 
blood of her inordinate, insatiable vanity. 

Since her marriage she had contrived 
continually to send light trifling messages 
to Fernand, the object of which was to 
keep alive his remembrance of the past, 
and raise hopes for the future; for she 


knew that the heart that bends beneath the 
rule of love, in the height of its despair 
will rely for support upon a tender twig; 
and the result of her calculation was 
correct, for Fernand’s reminiscences — thus 
constantly stimulated — prevented him from 
entertaining any other serious attachment. 

Lady Melrose was not a woman who 
doubted her own power, although she had 
not expected that D’Arville would respond 
so readily to her first appeal ; and thus it 
was that the eagerness he showed to avail 
himself immediately of her invitation 
caused her rather an agreeable surprise. 
Incapable of any distinct, defined senti- 
ment, she was susceptible to those pre- 
ferences, which, without touching the heart, 
offer it a piquant diversion. Only lately 
arrived at Naples, where she had no ac- 
quaintances, she was glad to see one old 
familiar face, — essentially indolent and sel- 
fish she required the greatest forecast to 
procure new pleasures every day, — impe- 
rious in her demands she required mute 
resignation to her will, and, despising her 
proud island husband, she saw in Fernand 
a devoted ciciabeo^ an obedient eastern 
slave. 

As D’Arville was ushered into the pri- 
vate box he found Lady Melrose reclining, 
in a well-studied attitude, against the crim- 
son curtain, whose deep color reflected a 
faint rosy-tint upon her transparent cheeks ; 
her face was slightly clouded with the ennui 
of a conjugal Ute-^-Ute.. She blushed with 
pleasure as she beheld Fernand, and enter- 
ed into an animated conversation with 
him, which contrasted in a singular manner 
with the torpor that engrossed her before 
he came in. 

My Lady Melrose was no ordinary co- 
quette ; she had studied the science of flir- 
tation in all its thousand phases, and knew 
how to take advantage of the most trivial 
occurrence. She was aware that Fernand’s 
mother died of a pulmonary complaint, she 
recollected the morbid feelings that any 
symptom of decline awakened in him, and 
she proceeded to enlist his instinctive sym- 
pathies for herself. She informed him that 
she had been ordered to pass the winter at 
Naples, in the balmy southern atmosphere, 
by her physicians, who were uneasy about 
the state of her lungs ; that life had no real 
value in her eyes, but it was the property 
of her husband and her boy, and therefore 
she had consented to take the journey, to 
avert, if possible, the calamity that threat- 
ened her. 

These words were enforced with a bitter, 
dry, short cough, which overshot the mark 
she aimed at, because, up to that moment, 
the Earl had not remarked it — for the sim- 
ple reason that he had never heard it before ; 
and now, not being at all acquainted with 
female hypocrisy, he fixed his large blue 


62 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


eyes upon her and wondered at her pathetic 
tone, and the sudden attack of phthisis with 
which she had been seized. However, he 
merely remarked that there must be a 
draught somewhere in the box, and then di- 
rected his powerful opera-glass upon the 
stage, and minutely examined the symmet- 
rical limbs of the premiere dameuse. 

Valerie then turned her attention exclu- 
sively to Fernand, and, without in the least 
exciting her husband’s jealousy, made fre- 
quent allusions to their having met at Paris, 
to the happy days they had passed together 
at the Chateau de Tallemant, and her never- 
failing remembrance of them. A hundred 
adroit words and observations conveyed the 
impression that it was impossible she could 
forget those days, and made D’Arville be- 
lieve that the reports prevalent respecting 
her coquetry and lightness of behavior were 
totally devoid of truth. 

Delighted, agitated, convinced, and burn- 
ing with renewed love, Fernand thought he 
read “ his hope’s sweet triumph in her 
eyes,” and that her tender looks declared 
that passion which she dared not make more 
fully known. Every event that had taken 
place since that separation had disappeared 
from his remembrance, as by an enchanter’s 
wand ; his soul seemed to have awakened 
from a long dark night of sleep, and he saw 
nothing, heard nothing, but his adored Va- 
lerie. And yet his heart ached as he drank 
in the intoxicating passion at his eyes, for 
he supposed, judging from the reason as- 
signed by the Countess for her being at 
Naples, that all his dearest hopes, his hap- 
piness in this life, reposed on a frail, tender 
flower, which might droop and die under 
the complaint that had carried oflT his 
mother. 

Already he thought he perceived in Va- 
lerie’s pale complexion, her sparkling eye, 
and ruby lips, the seeds of that insidious 
disease that culls its victims from the young 
and loveliest of the earth ; and the dreadful 
fear that he might soon behold the portals 
of the tomb close upon his sweet dream of 
love, rendered its object still dearer to his 
heart. These apprehensions threw a sombre 
veil over his speaking countenance, and 
Lady Melrose, on seeing it, congratulated 
herself on the success of her cousummate 
acting. 

Whether the Earl was secretly influenced 
by jealousy, or whether he thought himself 
obliged to testify an excess of politeness — 
with wdiich Fernand could very well have 
dispensed — he did not leave the box one 
instant during the performances. D’Arville 
ho[)ed in vain to obtain a moment’s 
with Valerie, but Lord Melrose would not 
move, and when the curtain fell he assisted 
his wife to put on her shawl, and handed 
her himself to the carriage, then he put 
Fernand’s arm under his, and accompanied 


the young man to the door of the house 
where he resided. 

Nothing could be more perfectly polite, 
more friendly, and prudent, — although not 
brilliant, Valerie’s husband understood the 
world ! 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Whilst Fernand, with his whole soul 
bound up in Valerie, forgot that such a per- 
son as Giuditta existed, the miserable girl 
remained alone, immersed in grief, the more 
poignant because it was the first that had 
disturbed the even tenor of her love. 

Notwithstanding the chequered incidents 
of her young life, the beautiful Neapolitan 
had preserved a freshness of heart altogether 
incomprehensible to those who do not know 
the simplicity and truthfulness of the Italian 
character. At first she had been so much 
surprised that a superior being like Fernand 
should lower his regards to a poor girl of 
the humble classes, that it was long before 
she could believe her happiness ; but when 
once the fact was proved beyond all doubt, 
— when she found herself, in very deed, the 
friend and intimate companion of him she 
had adored so long in silence, — she vainly 
imagined that her devotion to him, and her 
beauty, which he praised so highly, would 
strengthen the bonds that bound him to 
her, and produce at last an indissoluble 
union — at her age girls believe so easily 
and fully in the words “ for ever!” 

This error of her judgment was not the 
elfect of female vanity, but the natural con- 
sequence of her profound ignorance of the 
world. In spite of that youth and loveliness 
which had made her celebrated in the Nea- 
politan studios, no one had ever breathed 
one word of honorable love to her. Fer- 
nand, when moments of impetuous passion 
had carried him beyond the bounds of 
truth, had certainly uttered some of those 
foolish words a man forgets the instant they 
are spoken ; but these seeds, generally waft- 
ed away by the winds, had sunk into her 
heart and germinated there, for she believed 
them as implicitly as if they had come down 
to her from Heaven. 

Incapable of deceit herself, she could not 
believe it existed in the breasts of others ; 
nor, in fact, had Fernand ever contemplated 
deceiving lier. As usual, he only followed 
his selfish instincts, without troubling him- 
self about the results ; he surrounded the 
common occurrences of liis life with a 
poetic halo, but his day-dreams left no 
trace upon his mind, whilst with Giuditta 
all was simple, material, and true. Words 
cannot portray tlie intensity of her passion- 
ate admiration, she was completely isolated 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS, 


in her love, and hitherto not a shadow of 
fear had troubled the serenity of her inex- 
perienced mind. 

But now Fernand’s abrupt departure, the 
permission he had, as it were, tossed at her, 
to leave the, house without him, and, above 
all, his meeting with that lady, his excite- 
ment upon seeing her; all these circum- 
stances — like dazzling rays of light concen- 
trated into one focus — produced a sudden 
and appalling change in her appreciation 
of her real situation. Her impressions 
were still vague and indecisive, but it ap- 
peared to her that her happiness was fleet- 
ing, and clouds were gathering upon that 
horizon which had been so bright. 

It is a fatal moment when chilling doubt 
glides like a deadly serpent into the young 
heart, for it is pure conflding faith alone 
that constitutes the instinctive essence of 
first-love. As we advance in life passion is 
equally ardent, and the desire of clinging to 
another more imperious ; but tlie tree of 
experience has borne its fruits, the security 
of the heart is gone ! 

Giuditta wept long when D’Arville left 
her, and that night, in which she had prom- 
ised herself so much delight, was the initia- 
tion of that new life of cruel sufferings to 
which her destiny irresistibly compelled 
her. 

When D’Arville returned, deluded with 
the vision of those hopes which his inter- 
view with Yalerie had raised, he found the 
girl plunged into that stplid despair which 
usually follows sudden overwhelming grief. 
She was seated by a window she had opened 
to watch for his return ; the chilly wind of 
a November night blew cold upon her 
shoulders, and her rich fancy-dress offered a 
mournful contrast to the sorrowful express- 
ion of her countenance, which still bore 
the traces of her tears. 

Fernand’s selfishness had no touch of ab- 
solute cruelty in it; he would not have 
denied himself a single gratification to please 
any living being, but he did not do evil for 
evil’s sake, and Giuditta’s silent grief moved 
him more than the most eloquent reproaches 
could have done. He felt really ashamed 
of his conduct to the loving girl, but he 
knew not how to act; he was aware that 
he had trampled upon her heart, and was 
disposed to acknowledge it; but, with his 
head full of another woman, he could not 
find those sincere words which induce the 
justly offended to forgive and to forget. 

In order to escape from his embarrass- 
ment, and to avoid the utterance of senti- 
ments of affection that he did not feel, he 
reproached Giuditta warmly for her impru- 
dence in exposing herself to the cold night- 
air. At the sound of his dear voice she 
lifted her eyes, swimming with tears, tow- 
ards him, and without saying one word 
took up her mantle and prepared to return 


63 

home. This mute resignation was not 
without effect on D’Arville. 

“ Giuditta,” he said, pressing her hands 
in his, “ will you leave me thus ?” 

The tone of Fernand’s voice was un- 
usually tender, the triumphant look with 
which he had entered was softened with 
compassion, and Giuditta was overcome ; 
yielding to the force of her love dissolved 
in tears, she threw herself into his arms, — • 
but now it was joy that made them flow, 
and they fell upon her heart like healing 
balm. 

D’Arville could not respond to the em- 
brace, but he felt pity for the miserable girl ; 
for a moment he thought he would confide 
to her the secret of his long cherished pas- 
sion for Lady Melrose, but the fear of com- 
promising the honor of a lady of elevated 
rank restrained Iiim, the abhorrence which 
all men entertain of sighs and tears stopped 
the confession on his lips, and Giuditta 
withdrew, rejoicing in the delusion that he 
still loved her. 

The morning after this unpleasant scene 
Fernand paid a visit to Lady Melrose at 
the Vittoria Hotel, and found her sur- 
rounded by those innumerable nothings, the 
only use of which is to heighten the beauty 
of a pretty woman. She was dressed pur- 
posely for effect; a flowing morning robe 
of white muslin was gathered around her 
slender shape with an azure silken cord, 
the robe was trimmed with ribbons of the 
same color — which is the favorite one of 
all fair beauties — and a cap formed of Eng- 
lish lace, with pendant ears, encircled her 
fair face. She was reclining upon a crim- 
son velvet ottoman ; a lovely boy played at 
her feet with a King Charles’s spaniel; 
whilst the Earl was busy conning the colos- 
sal columns of the “ Times.’’'' She received 
Fernand cordially, and the impressiveness 
she threw into her welcome completely 
fascinated the young man. 

In a struggle between two women for 
ascendancy in a man’s heart, the chances of 
victory are by no means equal. The co- 
quette, with a heart unoccupied, thinks and 
ponders over her manoeuvres ; in the same 
way as a skilful general on the day of battle 
forms his plans of attack and calculates his 
chances of success, she has foreseen all, is 
armed at all points, watches against sur- 
prises, and neglects no precautions to insure 
victory. She is calm — which is in itself a 
great element of success — and that advan- 
tage allows her to make the most of her 
talent, the force of her conversational pow- 
ers, and her native wit. She knows how 
to excite alternate hopes and fears; she 
plays skilfully with the innumerable weak- 
nesses of the man she desires to enslave, 
whilst she remains unscathed in the armor 
of indifference. 

But the woman who has staked the hap- 


64 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


piness of her existence on her love is 
jealous, restless, and agitated ; a wore], a 
look, makes her quiver with a thousand 
anxious doubts and fears, and she often 
finds herself disarmed, and at the mercy of 
the man she would subdue. True passion 
does not reflect, but becomes irritated at 
every obstacle that bars its progress. Men 
like to encounter difficulties that they may 
surmount them ; and the heartless coquette, 
well acquainted with the fact, creates them 
at every turn ; sometimes, but rarely, she 
allows herself to be surprised, but never, 
never yields. 

Fernand, who was far from attributing 
Lady Melrose’s affability to its true cause, 
gathered up her words and looks, and gar- 
nered them in his credulous egotistical 
heart ; he renewed his visits every day, 
without ever flnding Valerie alone — at home, 
at the Opera, or in her promenades — for the 
Earl never left her for a moment, and as she 
did not appear vexed at this perpetual mari- 
tal surveillance, Fernand interpreted his un- 
ceasing vigilance to his perception of the 
Countess’s real feelings and his fear of their 
exploding. 

The idea was, at the least, consolatory to 
D’Arville’s vanity ; but the system of con- 
stant watchfulness annoyed him, the more 
so that the Earl affected the greatest confi- 
dence in the virtue and affection of his wife, 
— a confidence which was forcibly contra- 
dicted by his indefatigable espionage. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

One morning Lord Melrose called early 
upon Fernand, and found him at breakfast 
with Giuditta Castelli. Although ostensibly 
a converted roue and a model husband, the 
noble Earl was far from being insensible to 
the charms of beauty ; and his conjugal 
fidelity, so prominently paraded, was con- 
fined to abstaining from making love to 
women of the world, and never in his wife’s 
presence allowing the pretensions of any 
other woman. He had benefited largely by 
this astute system, for, in obtaining the 
reputation of an admirable husband, and 
proclaiming the Countess’s superiority over 
the whole female human race, he was spared 
the necessity of proving his sentiments on 
all occasions. 

The majestic beauty of the young Italian, 
— ^her long, flowing, undulating locks, — the 
fire sparkling in her eyes, — her exquisitely 
chiselled nose, — her animated looks, — her 
skin tinted with the burning southern sun, 
— her full, rounded form, — the health that 
glowed in every speaking feature, — subdued 
the noble lord, who appreciated her beauties 


the more from their marked contrast with 
the fair divinity who bore his name. The 
prolonged gaze he fixed upon her explained 
his admiration of her as plainly as his cold 
blue eye could speak, but D’Arville felt an- 
noyed at being discovered with the young 
Italian, for he made sure that the Earl 
would certainly inform the countess of the 
circumstance; nevertheless he put a good 
face upon the matter, and introduced Mel- 
rose to Giuditta as — one of his best friends ! 

The term “friend” procured the nobleman 
a hearty welcome ; the girl’s natural intelli- 
gence and vivacity pleased his reserved, 
taciturn disposition ; he was delighted with 
her nai've intelligent remarks; and when 
he took his leave, after a prolonged stay, 
paid D’Arville some warm compliments 
upon the talents and beauty of his mistress. 

“ She is a good creature,” Fernand re- 
plied, with real indifference ; “ the shell, 
you see, is rough as nature formed it, but 
she possesses a very amiable heart and the 
best dispositions.” 

“ Good ! good ! my friend,” the Earl said, 
with a slight curl on his lip : “ you are in 
your proper element. I know young France 
well, and am aware that the first article of 
its fashionable code prohibits all show of 
feeling ; but to me, who am no longer under 
the banner of Cytherea, you might as well 
have shown your enthusiasm for your match- 
less beauty.” 

“ What mean you, my Lord?” 

“ That you are struck with this peerless 
Italian, and will soon be desperately in love 
with her.” 

“Possibly!” Fernand answered, doing his 
best to expn’ess a slight yawn ; “ but at all 
events my fancy for her does not excite me 
to jealousy, and although your Lordship’s 
modesty will not allow me to suppose that 
which I will readily admit — your power of 
superseding me, I shall be only too happy 
if you will pass with us all those moments 
that your leisure will permit.” 

One day, soon after the Earl’s visit, 
D’Arville accompanied Lord and Lady Mel- 
rose in a promenade at the Villa Reale. 
Lord Melrose, as usual, had his lady on his 
arm, to the great disgust of her lover, who 
wished him at the bottom of the sea that 
bathed the walls of the royal gardens ; and 
the more so, because he thought he per- 
ceived that the Earl was laughing inwardly 
at his useless efforts to whisper sundry soft 
nothings apart to Lady Melrose. 

Valerie had never looked more lovely, and 
the languishing glances she cast upon Fer- 
nand, whenever she had an opportunity of 
doing so unobserved, caused the young 
man’s blood to boil. He would have given 
away one half of his future life to have been 
alone with her and poured forth his protesta- 
tions of eternal love; his poetical organi- 
zation enveloped her with a halo of divinity ; 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


65 


be gazed into her face with feverish agita- 
tion, endeavoring to espy one indication of 
emotion that responded to his own; hut 
Lady Melrose, leaning all matrimonially 
upon her husband’s arm, only replied to his 
ardent glances with soft insinuating smiles, 
whilst she did not seek to conceal her de- 
light at the observations of a crowd of ad- 
mirers who pressed upon her heels. 

Her imperturbable coolness drove Fernand 
almost to desperation ; the most ridiculous 
projects were floating madly in his brain ; 
he even dreamed at times of openly insult- 
ing the Earl, and provoking him to a duel ; 
but the fear of public displeasure, and its 
inevitable consequences, restrained him with 
the greatest difliculty within the bounds of 
reason. 

Whilst D’Arville sauntered on, a prey to 
his delusion, he saw Lord Melrose suddenly 
turn his head to observe a female who 
passed by him, and heard him utter invol- 
untarily : “ How beautiful !” Valerie, hear- 
ing the unwonted exclamation, looked at 
him in surprise, whereupon his lordship ex- 
tended his arm towards the glittering sea, 
indicating it as the object of his admiration ; 
and Fernand, turning his head also at the 
same moment, perceived that the female 
was Giuditta Oastelli. 

To his shame be it spoken, this discovery 
gave him intense delight; his good angel 
yielded to. the pernicious influence of the 
fiend that tempted him. An idea, which a 
few minutes previously he would have 
scouted as one of unparalleled infamy, rush- 
ed across his brain, and he pondered how 
he could best foster an intimacy between 
his victim and the Earl, so that he might 
get rid at once of her claim upon him, of 
her constant jealousy, and of the perpetual 
surveillance of Lord Melrose. 

He saw that this two-fold result re- 
quired resolution, ingenuity, and perse- 
verance, but in the presence of Valerie he 
felt himself capable of surmounting every 
obstacle; and making a great effort to re- 
cover his equanimity, he set about calcu- 
lating the means by which he should achieve 
success. Giuditta, as she passed, had seen 
Fernand with Lady Melrose, and returned 
home irritated, and giving way to the 
fiercest jealousy. 

In order to thoroughly comprehend the 
situation and feelings of the devoted girl, it 
will be necessary to revert slightly to what 
had taken place since Lady Melrose arrived 
in Naples. Fernand’s frequent absences 
from Giuditta, and his coldness when he 
met her on his return, excited her suspicions 
that his love was on the wane, and caused 
her to put innumerable questions to him, 
which questions drew from him incoherent 
replies, totally at variance with each other. 
Sometimes he attributed his morose in- 
diff'erence to bad speculations, to the non- 

E 


payment of interest on his investments ; at 
others he would try to make her believe 
that he had imbibed a taste for gaming, and 
that the variations of his temper depended 
upon his gains or losses. 

Giuditta did her utmost to make her break- 
ing heart believe these puerile excuses ; but 
she was a woman and an Italian. Nature 
would assert its supremacy, and during the 
long watches of the night she would yield 
herself up to the tortures of despair. The 
figure of the lady she had seen in the Eng- 
lish carriage on the Strada Nuova rose con- 
stantly before her, like a hideous spectre, 
wrecking her happiness and luring her to 
ruin; from the hour of that passing glance 
Fernand had become cold and indiff’erent to 
her, and now she had seen him walking 
with her on the Villa Reale, and paying 
every attention to her. 

Mingling in the crowd the moment she 
had passed the group, Giudditta watched 
the Countess’s triumphant progress ; she be- 
held with furious indignation that light 
aerial shape, fair hair, and lily skin, which, 
from its rarity, is esteemed so highly in the 
south, and which that day had created such 
an extraordinary sensation on the promen- 
ade, and she detested their possessor. She 
beheld with dismay the looks of admiration 
that were raised on Valerie, the crowds that 
followed her with smothered words of adu- 
lation on their lips, and she could have 
stabbed her to the heart as she walked on 
revelling in delight, whilst her husband 
chuckled at the sensation his wife created, 
and Fernand strove by all the charms he 
could infuse into his conversation and his 
tell-tale eyes to win one of those smiles 
which the Cynthia of the hour had reserved 
for the public on that afternoon. 

At length she had discovered the solution 
of the problem, the secret cause of Fernand’s 
cutting conduct to her was unveiled ; the 
phantom that had pursued her, the fantastic 
creation of her brain, was no longer a 
dreamy suspicion, but an overwhelming, an 
astonishing truth — a rival in flesh and blood, 
against whom she could only oppose the 
sole weapon that Providence had armed her 
with — her splendid beauty. An expression 
of ferocious joy animated her countenance 
as she thought that her expanded voluptu- 
ous attractions must at once crush her fra- 
gile rival ; with all the desperate energy of 
her Italian blood — that blood that boils like 
the burning torrents of lava in Etna’s breast, 
and has recourse to deadly vengeance with- 
out the shadow of a scruple, she vowed that 
she would have a deep revenge. 

In an instant she tore off her mantle and 
veil, and as the rich long raven tresses 
streamed on her classically-moulded shoul- 
ders, she rushed to the Venetian mirror, and 
viewing her reflected image exclaimed, with 
a scornful smile : 


66 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


“Woman! puny, whey-faced woman! thou 
shalt acknowledge that I excel thee, or I 
will dash thy frail form to pieces at my 
feet!” 

Oh ! she was surpassing beautiful to see, — 
imposing like an inspired Pythoness, but 
terrible as the angel of destruction, with her 
doating locks, her eyes of fire, her features 
swelling with rage, and her pearly teeth 
shining through the ruby lips that were 
parted and drawn up in mockery and dis- 
dain ! 

“ What!” she cried, “shall that pale pup- 
pet rob me of my life, my soul, my all in 
this world and that which is to come ? Am 
I no longer Giuditta La Superba — the pride 
of Naples, the delight of poets and of artists ? 
Has the lustre of my eyes been dimmed, ray 
hair became less flowing and less black? 
Has my voice lost its sweetness and its 
power, and my free step become less firm 
and light ? And the glory of my youthful 
years — can she take that from me ?” 

Suddenly a change came over the roused 
spirit of the unhappy creature, and she mur- 
mured : 

“ But of what avail are all ray charms, 
my voice, my youth, my beauty, if he does 
not love me ? Of what avail are that face 
and form which painters and sculptors have 
so much admired, and so often transferred 
to canvass and to stone, if he prefers this 
lily-blossom of tlie north, this lady of high 
birth, whilst I to him am but a humble 
eontadma? Oh! misery! misery! But no! 
he shall not love her — this doll, covered 
with lace and fiowers. By Heaven ! have I 
centred all ray happiness in him that I 
should please him for a day, an hour, and 
then be cast aside like a faded fiower devoid 
of its perfume ? 1 will not bear this scorn, 

this withering indifference, this deep humil- 
iation ! If I die despised, outraged and 
abandoned, I will not perish without strug- 
gling to the last drop of my blood, without 
sacrificing my hated rival to my just re- 
venge, and hurling my denunciations, my 
curses at him as my last adieu!” 

So saying, and foaming like a lioness that 
has lost her young, Giuditta caught up her 
stiletto, hurriedly twisted her hair around 
her head, and rushed into the street. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The wrapt attention with which Fernand 
was reading a new novel, as he reclined 
upon a luxurious sofa, prevented him from 
observing that Giuditta was in the room. 
Subdued, utterly calmed by the sight of the 
man who possessed so much mysterious in- 
fluence over her, she trod silently as she ap- 


proached him ; the fierceness of her nature 
sunk into repose, and, yielding to the gen- 
tler impulses of her affection, she knelt 
down and imprinted a kiss upon his hand, 

Fernand, irritated at the interruption, 
snatched it away, without removing his 
look from the book. At once all the passion 
of her character burst out afresh, her eyes 
flashed fire ; she sprang up from her knees, 
snatched the novel from him, and threw it 
into the fire, where it was instantly con- 
sumed. 

“You are violent, my dear,” Fernand 
coolly observed, without rising, and gently 
lighting a cigar with some German tinder ; 
“ I was not aware of your possessing such a 
fascinating accomplishment, which no doubt 
will tend to cement our intimacy.” 

This imperturbable calmness drove the 
impetuous Italian almost to madness. 

“ Do you think ?” she cried, drawing her- 
self up in all her natural majesty — “ do you 
suppose, because up to this moment I have 
succeeded in quelling the agonies, in re- 
pressing the earthquake of passion that your 
cruelty has caused to heave within my 
breast — because to retain your love I have 
worn a smiling brow before you, — that I 
have not felt? Do you believe that tears 
are less poignant because they have been 
seen by Heaven alone, — that misery which 
is concealed does not prey upon the heart ? 
Think you that the miser will crouch be- 
fore the thief who steals a treasure dearer 
to him than his life ? And I, Fernand, — de- 
spised and deserted as I am, who know no 
joy, no heaven but in your love, — think 
you that I can quietly yield up that boon, 
that blessing, without giving utterance to 
that overwhelming grief that rends my soul, 
without one scalding tear trickling from my 
eyes, without my reason wandering and my 
heart breaking beneath the dreadful blow ? 

I came here broken in spirit, trembling and 
lowly, to ask you your reason for behaving 
thus to me. Oh ! tell me all — the name, the 
rank of this woman who tears you from me. 

I am too young yet to die, Fernand ; if you 
love her, tell it not to me, hide the fearful 
secret in the recesses of your heart, for I 
would live, live to adore you still, to be for- 
ever happy in your love.” 

The feelings of jealous rage with which 
Giuditta had left the house had fled on be- 
holding the dear object of her love; her 
hands — which she had raised in supplication 
— dropped powerless to her sides, and she 
bowed like a tender flower under her ap- 
palling load of misery. 

Fernand could not look upon the weeping 
girl without feeling much compunction and 
compassion, the pity she had aroused pre- 
vented him from making known to her the 
resolution lie had formed of at once break- 
ing the liaison that had so long subsisted 
between them ; his indecision was apparent 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


67 


on his face, for the excess of Giuditta’s at- 
tachment frightened him, lest, by avowing 
his intentions, she might be tempted to 
commit some rash irreparable act. 

Gould he, he thought — who had recoiled 
at tlie idea of an honorable tie, merely be- 
cause it would be indissoluble — attach him- 
self for ever to a lost woman, the victim of 
an overwhelming passion that he had in- 
spired, but never could partake? It was 
true that Giuditta had saved his life at the 
hazard of her own, but his egotism told him 
that he had fully recompensed her devotion 
by dedicating to her one year of his exist- 
ence. 

After a period of silence, broken only by 
the girl’s sobs, he said, with an assumption 
of dignity that set ill upon him : 

“My dear child, believe me that I do 
every justice to the excellence of your heart, 
to your disinterested affection for me, and 
the elevation of your sentiments, but you 
do not comprehend the duty I imperatively 
owe to myself: you do not recollect that 
some day or other I shall be compelled to 
leave Naples; that possibly I may marry, — 
not that it is likely to occur yet,” he added 
hastily, perceiving that she shuddered at the 
ominous word “ marry,” and pressed her 
hands upon her eyes ; “ but do be calm, be 
reasonable, I implore you ; agitation wor- 
ries me, and scenes are perfectly odious. 
Wliy should there be a change in the rela- 
tions that have hitherto been so delightful 
to us ? Up to the present moment we have 
been contented with each other ; we have 
not required any mutual sacrifices, but have 
lived quietly, only satisfied with our lot, 
without troubling ourselves about that 
future, those events, which sooner or later 
must arrive. 

“ You are very young and inexperienced, 
but the misfortunes of your early youth must 
have taught you that all is not sunshine in 
this life, therefore let us enjoy the rosy mo- 
ments as they pass, and not embitter them 
with useless recriminations. 

“ I have told you — and I repeat it— that 
you are perfectly free to do just as you 
please ; but, that you may not make your- 
self unhappy, I will tell you that the lady 
you saw me walking with this morning is 
the Countess of Melrose, the wife of my 
friend whom I introduced to you a few 
mornings back ; she is a vain creature, and 
likes to receive those flattering attentions 
which it is customary to pay to women of 
high rank.” 

On hearing this specious glozing explana- 
tion, Giuditta threw herself upon Fernand’s 
neck, and begged him to pardon her inju- 
rious suspicions ; but D’Arville removed her 
arms gently, and went on to say, as he 
passed his hands fondly through her luxu- 
riant tresses : 

“ Let us both act sensibly, carina ; let us 


keep the expression of exquisite sensibility 
for great occasions, and enjoy the present 
hour.” 

No contrast could possibly be greater than 
that presented by Fernand’s last words and 
the languid air upon his face ; but Giuditta 
was satisfied, and sitting on a stool at 
D’Arville’s feet she reclined her head affec- 
tionately upon his knee. 

“ All that you say, Fernand, is right no 
doubt,” she said, with a deep sigh, “ but you 
do not love me.” 

“ You are mistaken, dearest, I love you 
much.” 

“ That one word spoils the answer. Had 
you said simply ‘I love you,’ as you did 
that horrible night at my brother’s, I should 
have been satisfied. Do you remember it, 
Fernand ? Oh ! how intoxicated I was with 
joy, for you loved me dearly, truly, then.” 

“ Child that you are, Giuditta. I tell you 
that I love you still ; not with that foolish, 
ridiculous attachment thatf your romantic 
head is always dreaming of, but with a solid, 
sincere affection that will assure your hap- 
piness, — aye, in spite of yourself.” 

The girl looked up and fixed her eyes 
upon him, as if she would read his inmost 
thoughts, but the inspection did not please, 
nor did she penetrate the full meaning of 
his last ambiguous sentence. Shaking her 
head mournfully, she said : 

“ My happiness is to be near you, with 
you, — I know no other, and I want no other. 
Listen to what I say, Fernand : if ever you 
should abandon me, let me not hear one 
futile word about my future happiness, — 
bereft of your love, which I have fostered 
in my heart, I will accept nothing from your 
compassion.” 

In her total ignorance of the tortuous in- 
tricacies of the human heart, Giuditta per- 
sisted in touching that silent chord which 
would not vibrate for her ; she endeavored, 
as it >vere, to force herself into Fernand’s 
heart, but it was barred and locked against 
her. This pertinacity annoyed, but did not 
melt him, and the poor girl’s affection was 
thrown back upon Her like the waves are 
cast back from a massive beetling rock into 
the bosom of the parent sea. 

The Earl’s visits to D’Arville now took 
place every day, for, in addition to his in- 
creasing admiration of Castelli, he was 
pleased to escape from his matrimonial tUe- 
d'tetes^ and the perpetual ridiculous atten- 
tions that Valerie’s vanity exacted from 
him. These visits were peculiarly agree- 
able to Fernand, who nourished the project 
of transferring Giuditta to his lordship, and 
he therefore looked upon him as a liberator 
who was about to take from him a heavy 
burthen he had borne too long. The pres- 
ence of a third person was a relief to the 
embarrassments he felt when alone with 
his mistress, as he was the object ot a ten- 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


68 


derness by far too demonstrative for him in 
his present situation, and, with the con- 
sciousness of guilt, he feared her suspicions 
and reproaches. 

Giuditta was not devoid of penetration, 
and soon perceived the consolatory effect 
the Earl’s visits produced upon Fernand. 
Instead of remaining silent in one corner of 
the room, replying indolently to her remarks, 
he would engross the greatest share of the 
conversation, and re-animate it when it 
languished, for Melrose was by no means 
brilliant in society, and Giuditta’s gaiety was 
clouded by the jealous love that preyed upon 
her heart and allowed her no repose. 

In his lordship’s presence Fernand was 
tender and affectionate to Giuditta, for it 
was a part of his plan to make the Earl be- 
lieve he was in love with her, and to lull 
his suspicions respecting Valerie — to say 
nothing of the secret pleasure of deceiving 
& friend^ by taking a beloved wife from him. 
The girl always received the Earl with the 
greatest cordiality, for, in the simplicity of 
her heart, she attributed Fernand’s renewed 
affection to his lordship’s kind offices on her 
behalf ; she never thought of looking at him 
to ascertain whether he was plain or hand- 
some, and she certainly thought him very 
reserved and taciturn ; but it must be recol- 
lected that she knew but little French, and 
that he expressed himself with great diffi- 
culty in the Italian language. 

Melrose would remain for hours in Fer- 
nand’s apartment, his chin resting upon the 
head of his cane, contemplating the beautiful 
girl in silence, and flattering himself that 
the fondest love beamed from his glassy 
eyes, whilst Giuditta wondered what he 
possibly could mean ; in truth she did not 
think much about him, but busied herself 
with her usual occupations, now and then 
casting a glance of unutterable love at Fer- 
nand, but without supposing for a single 
moment that there could be a person in the 
world so exquisitely ridiculous, as to imagine 
that a woman who had lived with so very 
superior a being as her once-devoted lov- 
er could waste a thought upon any other 
man. 

And yet, notwithstanding his eight-and- 
thirty years, his abstracted look and marble 
features, the Earl of Melrose was a remark- 
ably good-looking man; he had been suc- 
cessful — where success is most desired — in 
the fashionable circles of liondon and of 
Paris, and he had been beloved by a woman 
of some standing in society, whom he had 
foully deceived and criieliy abandoned. His 
liaisons had ceased the moment they had 
palled upon his senses ; but now the hour 
of his slavery, his besotted bondage, had ar- 
rived, and the haughty English nobleman, 
who had enjoyed a most virtuous reputation 
at so slight a cost, had become the doting, 
devoted, abject slave of a lovely girl, who 


did not perceive, and, even if she had, 
would have despised his passion. 

Surely some evil genius, some malicious 
sprite, must amuse himself with perplexing 
the amours of frail humanity, so oddly are 
they combined, so rare it is to find that 
congenial sympathy of souls that poets rave 
of. The treasures of affection for which 
one man would hasten to pour forth his 
blood like water are denied to him, and 
lavished by a woman upon another man, 
who heedlessly tramples them beneath his 
feet, and every human being bears his share 
of suffering in this world of woe. 

Is there not an important moral lesson in 
this fact ? Why should we seek so earnest- 
ly to inflict vengeance on those who have 
wronged and injured us, when we know 
that fate will intrust their punishment to 
other hands — when we know that those 
who have betrayed us will infallibly be de- 
ceived themselves, and that the' heart which 
has been as hard as adamant to us, will find 
a flinty rock before which he will bend the 
knee and sue in vain ! 

Life is but a chain of mingled grief and 
suffering, of which every individual holds a 
link ; and that being undoubtedly the case, 
is it not our bounden, our sacred duty to 
entertain sentiments of forgiveness of of- 
fence, and eschew the delusive pleasures of 
revenge ? 


CHAPTER XXVII: 

D’Arville’s patient perseverance was at 
length repaid I Far from having to distrust 
the Earl’s uxorious vigilance, he himself 
came to request Fernand to escort Lady 
Melrose wheresoever she felt inclined to go, 
and even made him the confidant of some 
of his matrimonial infelicities. 

“Valerie,” said he, with a degree of van^ 
ity that made him hateful to Fernand — ' / 
“Valerie loves me so desperately, and is so 
dreadfully jealous, that she fancies infidelities 
in the most simple friendly visits. Do, pray, 
relieve me of dragging about with her all 
this morning, and make my excuses, whilst I 
try to find some little relaxation in the so- 
ciety of your charming Giuditta.” 

Fernand laughed in his sleeve as he gave 
the required promise, and left the room 
with hope and exultation bounding in his 
heart. He fancied that the moment of his 
wished-for recompense had come, but when 
he arrived at the Earl’s hotel, solacing him- 
self with the idea that four months’ chival- 
rous endurance would be rewarded with 
success, his hopes were scattered to the 
winds by finding Valerie’s grandmother, the 
Duchess de Marignan, seated quietly in the 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


69 


drawing-room, accompanied by her relative 
the little Viscount Augustus de Parab^re. 

The high rank that Valerie had attained, 
her immense income, and the numerous 
valuable presents that Lord Melrose was in 
the habit of making to her, had effectually 
reconciled the dowager to her grand-daugh- 
ter. The Countess was no longer, in the 
Duchess’s estimation, the detestable young 
woman, who, like her mother, would bring 
disgrace upon the family, but a charming 
delightful creature, full of wit and talent, 
and possessing the great worldly secret of 
amusing herself discreetly without compro- 
mising one tittle of her reputation. This 
tact was held by the Duchess to be of the 
very highest importance ; and her vexation 
and indignation, therefore, knew no bounds 
when she was informed that, since Lady 
Melrose had resided in Naples, she had 
made herself rather notorious by her pub- 
lic notice of the son of the deceased banker 
D’Arville. 

But the hatred with which she pursued 
Fernand was not altogether owing to her 
superciliousness, and contempt of all not 
born within the narrow circle of the aris- 
tocracy, for the greater portion of it was at- 
tributable to a slight she had received some 
years previously at bis father’s hand. The 
haughty woman had supposed she had only 
to throw her ducal handkerchief for the 
handsome humble D’Arville to pick it up ; 
but the banker had overlooked the doubt- 
ful proffered honor, and Madame de Marig- 
nan who, at that time, had arrived at a pe- 
riod of life when she might well doubt the 
continued power of her charms, conceived 
an instant hatred of him, which she trans- 
mitted to his son, who was thus made to 
suffer for an error he had not committed. 

“No, no!” she soliloquised, when the in- 
telligence reached her at Paris, that Fer- 
nand was established in the Earl’s hotel as 
the “friend of the house!” “it shall never 
be said that this baby, ‘paltry rhymer,’ 
who has the audacity to oppose his pigmy 
strength to my iron will, shall ever cross 
my path with impunity ! Rather than he 
should succeed with Valerie I would report 
his bold scheme to Lord Melrose, who 
would speedily chastise him ; or, if I could 
not inflame this stupid blinded husband’s 
jealousy, I would reveal to D’Arville the 
secret that this Earl seduced his sister Inez, 
— a duel must ensue, and probably the 
dreamy enthusiast would fall.” 

These charitable reflections were tem- 
porarily interrupted by the entrance of the 
Viscount de Parab^re, who came to request 
his haughty cousin would procure him an 
invitation to a ball about to be given by 
the Princess de B . 

“ I hold my bane and antidote both in 
my hands,” the Duchess muttered, without 
paying the least attention to the young 


nobleman ; “ but instead of a tragedy I will 
have a comedy ; scenes are odious to people 
of my age, especially when we can be no- 
thing more than disinterested spectators. 
Ah ! ha ! Monsieur Fernand D’Arville, you 
are floating gaily down the stream, but I 
will soon be upon your heels — ‘ he laughs 
well that laughs last ! ’ ” 

The plan of the Duchess’s campaign was 
formed in a few minutes, and then, as she 
required De Parab^re’s co-operation, she 
launched one of the sweetest smiles she 
could muster at him, and assured him that 
the coveted ticket for the Princess’s ball 
should not be wanting. She then com- 
menced the arduous task of inducing a sel- 
fish vain young man to leave the delights 
of Paris, in the height of the fashionable 
season, and to accompany an old woman on 
a long tedious journey to the south of 
Italy. But she was confident in her own 
powers of persuasion ; she possessed great 
natural talent and a quick perception of 
the weak sides of mankind, and she prac- 
tised every art to mould the Viscount to 
her wishes. Her sagacity never left her at 
fault, she knew how to wheedle artfully 
and to flatter with good grace, and she was 
also aware that in appealing to a man’s 
vanity a woman never fails to attain the 
wished-for end. 

Augustus de Parab^re was a handsome 
coxcomb, on excellent terms with himself, 
but not overburthened with good sense. In 
common with many other young Parisian 
dandies he had fallen in love with his 
cousin, Valerie de Marignan, and, like 
others, he believed his passion was re- 
turned ; but the idea of an alliance with the 
daughter of the Countess of Arnheiui was 
so repugnant to the Viscount’s mother, that 
her sole answer to his insinuations touching 
his marriage was to send him forthwith on 
a lengthened tour in the East, and that 
Lethe had produced its infallible effect, for 
Augustus returned completely cured of his 
sentimental passion. ' 

Notwithstanding her consummate expe- 
rience, the Duchess was somewhat surprised 
at the marvellous facility with which the 
Viscount was persuaded that his cousin was 
very unhappy in her marriage, on account 
of her constancy to him. He was slightly 
moved at the announcement, but did not 
wonder at it, because his vanity assured 
him he was worthy of the most enduring 
remembrance by any woman, and probably 
he would have contented himself with the 
expression of his gratitude, had not the 
astute Duchess, after flattering him with 
presumptuous hopes, adroitly stated that 
the handsome talented poet, Fernand D’Ar- 
ville, was most assiduous in his attentions 
to her grand-daughter, and she feared that 
the warm-hearted girl, alone in a foreign 
country, with a husband whom she could 


70 


CLOTTDED HAPPINESS. 


not love, would fall into some romantic 
error, unsanctioned by the prejudices of 
society at large. The consequence was, 
that when Madame de Marignan proposed 
to the Viscount to accompany her to Naples, 
he did not hesitate to accede to her request, 
and a few days afterwards the Duchess and 
her dupe were comfortably seated in her 
travelling carriage, rolling as fast as four 
post-horses could carry them upon the road 
to Lyons. 

When the aristocratic travelling carriage 
alighted at the Vittoria hotel, D’Arville had 
gone to visit one of the chief Neapolitan 
cities, where he remained for upwards of a 
week ; and on his return his hopes were at 
once dashed to the earth by the news of 
the Duchess’s arrival, and the more so, as 
during his absence she had had plenty of 
time to undermine the ascendancy he had 
over Valerie. He knew that the rancorous 
old woman had sworn tlie most deadly 
hatred to him, he was aware of the Vis- 
count’s envious rivalry, and he felt that the 
continued association of these two beings 
with Lady Melrose, and their constant 
aspersion of him, must gain some influence 
over her, inasmuch, as like all persons of 
feeble mind, she was materially afiected by 
the opinions of those around her. 

Fernand’s suspicions were soon doomed 
to be confirmed. On the morning after his 
return from his excursion, when he repaired 
to the Vittoria hotel to pay his devoirs to 
Lady Melrose, she received him with con- 
siderable embarrassment, and the Duchess 
honored him with that freezing politeness 
that almost amounted to insult. Augustus 
de Parab^re, lolling on a sofa, with his fair 
curly hair buried in the luxurious cushions, 
nodded slightly without moving, and re- 
sumed the amusement which Fernand’s 
entrance had interrupted, — namely, of dart- 
ing the most killing glances at Valerie, and 
whisking off the flies that lighted on the 
spaniel’s back with his cane, an operation 
which the pampered animal bore with the 
greatest equanimity. 

The Duchess went on talking upon family 
affairs totally unknown to Fernand— such 
as the law-suit concerning the property of 
her cousin, the Duke de Plombal ; the mar- 
riage of Mademoiselle de Sablonville, and 
the difficulties respecting her dower; the 
sudden death of the Marchioness de Ga- 
mache, her disinheriting her prodigal ne- 
phew, &c., &c. Fernand had determined 
to combat the malevolent Duchess to the 
death, but there was not a possibility of his 
taking a part in such a conversation; he 
endeavored several times in sheer desper- 
ation to put in a word, but the old woman 
cut him short, and then talked on as if she 
had not heard him. 

After exhausting these family details the 
dowager spoke of her plans for parties in 


the country, at theatres, and balls, without 
mentioning D’Arville, or seeming to suppose 
that he could dream of forming one of the 
invited guests; sometimes addressing De 
Parab^re and sometimes her niece, and al- 
lowing her cold eye to wander over Fernand 
and the couch on which he sat, as if she 
was not aware that there Avas such a being 
in the room. 

Like all other weak characters Valerie 
was too indolent to come to her lover’s 
rescue, but her vanity suffered much at 
seeing the humiliation to which he was ex- 
posed, although she was Avell aAvare that it 
was only through his love for her that he 
submitted to it. In order to conceal her 
anger and confusion, she directed her at- 
tention to De Parab^re, wlio immediately 
deemed himself in duty bound to smirk 
and smile, and address some stale trite com- 
pliments to her, which so enraged Fernand 
that he rose, bowed, and left the room 
abruptly, — and had the satisfaction of hear- 
ing, as the door closed behind him, a burst 
of scornful derisive laughter from the Vis- 
count and Madame de Marignan, whilst Va- 
lerie remained silent, and even sad, after his 
departure, for she thought she had lost him 
forever, and she really entertained as much 
affection for him as her selfish temperament 
was capable of feeling. 

Furious at the treatment he had received, 
Fernand walked swiftly to the Villa Reale, 
and was plunging into the most secluded 
avenue, when he was accosted by the Prince 
Luigi Lucchesini. The friends, for such 
they were in the habit of styling themselves, 
had not met for several months. In the 
earlier periods of Fernand’s liaison with Giu- 
ditta when his enthusiastic imagination 
wished to encircle her with a halo of poesy 
more in accordance with her exquisite clas- 
sical beauty than the reality of her position, 
Lucchesini’s jocular remarks pained and 
grieved Fernand, because they frequently 
referred to the poor girl’s former life, and 
since the arrival of Lady Melrose in Naples 
he feared more than ever the expressive 
pantomime of this very matter-of-fact off- 
hand gentleman. The Prince Avas struck 
with the sombreness of Fernand’s broAv. 

“My good fellow,” he cried, “I hardly 
knew you ; decidedly you are going doAvn- 
hill at a terrible rate, and. all for love of the 
bright eyes of a singer on the Toledo ! Oh ! 
hoAV you are fallen from the pinnacle of 
your former splendors !” 

Fernand endeavored to reply in the same 
free-and-easy manner, but did not succeed. 

“ My dear Prince !” he said, “ you do my 
sensitiveness more honor than it deserves 
if you connect my ill-humor with an affair 
of the heart; the causes of it, I assure you, 
are not so sublimated, it proceeds from un- 
easiness about money matters and heavy 
losses at play.” 


CLOUDED HAPPmESS. 


71 


Lucchesini shrugged his shoulders and 
whistled incredulously as he heard this ab- 
surd explanation, and then placing himself 
with his arms folded across his breast before 
Fernand, he said : 

“That’s a pretty tale that will not go 
down with us young fellows who know what 
life is ! Want of money! Why you have 
twice as much as a bachelor requires for a 
suite of apartments graced with such a 
singing-bird as Giuditta, and if — like me — 
you had not one penny in your purse, why 
should you be less gay ? Look you, comrade, 
you are taking the world in a wrong light, 
you are accusing and worrying yourself at 
the same time by playing at sentimental 
love with an acknowledged coquette, and at 
delicacy with the sister of a notorious rob- 
ber. Now, pray don’t be so superlatively 
stupid as to carry it on any longer ; these wo- 
men only laugh at such enthusiastic fools as 
you, and upon my word they are in the right.” 

“ It is possible that Lady Melrose may be 
the coquette you term her — as the majority 
of my fair countrywomen are,” Fernand re- 
plied ; “ I do not feel myself called on to ex- 
culpate her from the charge; but as to Giu- 
ditta, I have the very best reasons for know- 
ing that sl)e loves me.” 

Luigi made that singularly expressive Ital- 
ian motion which consists in rapidly and 
simultaneously elevating the eyebrows, the 
shoulders, and the liands, and keeping them 
still for a few seconds. 

“ All things are possible, mio caro^' he 
answered carelessly; “ I do not say that she 
is not; but this I do know, she annoys you 
mortally, and your false delicacy will not 
permit you to tell her so.” 

The cavalier tone in which the Prince 
spoke of a woman whom Fernand knew was 
really devoted to him, and with whom he 
had passed many happy hours, grated harsh- 
ly on his ears, and lie said coldly : 

. “It would be absurd to endeavor to im- 
press upon you the truth of that which you 
are determined not to believe ; laugh at my 
obstinate folly if you will, but I repeat that 
Giuditta loves me, notwithstanding her un- 
fortunate connections and unhappy life, and 
as I am profoundly convinced of the fact, all 
the cutting sarcasms in the world will not 
induce me to abandon her.” 

“Abandon her! Holy Virgin! who ever 
spoke of such a thing ? Not I. On the con- 
trary, I admire, venerate your chivalrous 
constancy, so unwonted in these base de- 
generate days. It is true that you are se- 
riously attached to a girl of a class who only 
form a caprice more or less ephemeral for 
us passionate Neapolitans, and she is infin- 
itely obliged to you for it. It is all very 
natural that a young headstrong girl like 
her should be excited, and persuade herself 
tliat she adores you, but that will pass away. 
We Italians, male and female, retain all the 


fickle waywardness of children, and cast 
away carelessly in the morning what we 
were mad for the previous night. I do not 
mean to say that you will not have a scene 
or two to go through with your inamorata, 
— some’ little violence, sundry complaints, 
some maledictions, and some tears. It is 
possible that your jealous Ariadne may offer 
you the delightful choice of the dagger or the 
poisoned cup, and she may threaten to throw 
herself into the sea, but believe me my dear 
boy, she will only throw herself into the arms 
of the first swain who may take it into his 
head to console her. Now do not look at me 
so piteously, Fernand, I am but joking after 
all. If you are really enamored of this bril- 
liant Giuditta, why, keep to her, in Heaven’s 
name ! All we men want is to be happy — 
that’s my motto — although we don’t all 
agree as to the manner in which it is to be 
effected, and yours, I must say, is not pre- 
cisely that of the generality of civilized 
mankind. No matter, so as it pleases you, 
— you will have fewer rivals !” 

“ You are wrong, my most perspicuous 
Prince !” Fernand observed, the moment 
Lucchesini, who had spoken with all the 
volubility of his countrymen, stopped for 
breath, “ you are wrong in supposing that 
Giuditta has no consistent admirers, — the 
Earl of Melrose is mad about her !” 

Lucchesini heard this piece of intelligence 
with immense delight, he laughed immoder- 
ately, clapped his hands together, stamped 
his feet rapidly on the ground, and gave 
way to the full excess of Italian gaiety. 

“ Accept my congratulations, my dear 
fellow,” he continued, as soon as he had re- 
covered breath ; “ verily you are the luckiest 
of lovers ; you have only to get satiated of 
a mistress, and, lo ! a complaisant individual 
takes her off your hands, — and the husband 
of your lady-love ! By Jove it is too ridic- 
ulous — too good a joke to be believed ! As 
for our pretty Giuditta, depend upon it she 
will thank you hereafter for your kind con- 
sideration and disinterestedness. Why this 
Englishman, they say, is a perfect Croesus. 
If he will play the fool at his ripe age, — en- 
velop himself in a shower of gold, like the 
god of old, and descend to our pretty Danae, 
— he will find her ready to accept him, I 
will pledge my life. But, bless me, Fernand, 
you do not seem to comprehend all the ad- 
vantages of your situation, — surely you are 
not so weak as to be jealous of a woman 
you do not care for ?” 

“ Not in the least, my friend ; I did but 
think of the best mode of inducing Giuditta 
to accept Lord Melrose and his wealth. 
Believe me, Luigi, it will not be so easy as 
you suppose.” 

“ On my honor, Fernand,” the Prince ex- 
claimed, half-vexed, “you annoy me with 
your ridiculous simplicity ! Do you not 
know that she is the daughter of a courtesan. 


72 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


and that ‘blood will out?’ But be of good 
cheer, I will disembarrass you of La Cas- 
telli. Corpo di Bacco / she must hear reason ; 
it is rather too much for a model — ^a singing 
tiymph — to think of engrossing a fellow of 
your transcendent merits! And'yet,” he 
continued, shaking his head sententiously, 
“ tliere is not a woman — that is, a pretty 
woman — who does not think that her 
charms can fix the most fickle of us all. 
^Tis an innocent hallucination of the dear, 
pretty creatures, but tends too much to our 
pleasures for us to quarrel with it !” 

“It is not so with Giuditta! She is the 
very soul of disinterestedness, and does not 
care for Lord Melrose and his millions. 
With her present ideas it will be difficult to 
make her believe that she will be more 
happy with a man who has mines of gold at 
his command than with him — although poor 
— whom she has the weakness to prefer.” 

“ A cottage, and thy love ! Pretty, sen- 
timental, pure, and touching ; but it never 
lasts. This love-sick girl must be made to 
understand it, and that you cannot rivet 
your future life to one of her condition. 
There will be a storm, no doubt, but I have 
undertaken the negociation, and I will not 
fail to brave its fury. Sighs, and groans, 
and outcries, and tears, have long lost their 
effect on me, Fernand. Gospetto ! I have 
seen and heard too many of them. Thus, 
then, it shall be : I will bear the full brunt 
of the enemy’s first fire, and when it shall 
have moderated somewhat in intensity you 
shall appear upon the scene, and shall speak 
with all that persuasive eloquence that dis- 
tinguishes you of the friendship, esteem, de- 
votion, and all that which all of us feel for 
a woman whom we never mean to see again. 
And now, farewell, for I am off on my 
diplomatic mission. 

The heartless libertine walked away with- 
out further parley, and Fernand remained 
silent for some minutes, for he felt over- 
whelming shame at having intrusted the 
unfeeling communication to a man of Luc- 
chesini’s debauched coarse habits ; however, 
he soon shook off his lethargy, and tried to 
satisfy his conscience for committing the 
dastardly act by recalling the torments he 
had endured that morning on his visit to 
Valerie. Betrayed, despised, insulted — as 
he thought — he felt he could not bear the 
importunate tenderness of Giuditta. 

When a being is the victim of misplaced 
affection, the passion he or she inspires in 
another irritates, but cannot console ! 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Giuditta had passed the day alone, ex- 
pecting D’Arville, who had promised the 


preceding evening to visit her before dinner, 
and as Fernand rarely came to see her now, 
she had waited for him in the greatest 
anxiety. 

The apartment in which she sat was fur- 
nished with extreme simplicity; the cur- 
tains were of white muslin, worked with 
groups of flowers, and lined with rose- 
colored calico ; one large mirror was placed 
above the mantel-piece, and two fauteuils, a 
couch, some chairs en suite^ and a round, 
carved table, composed the remainder of the 
furniture. A capacious window opened on 
to a balcony, adorned with dwarf orange 
trees, and odoriferous shrubs, and afforded 
an uninterrupted view of the far-famed Bay 
of Naples. 

Nothing in this room showed the least 
trace of Giuditta’s former miserable life; 
the pure taste and elegance it displayed 
were the natural results of the total trans- 
formation that had taken place in her being, 
her instincts, and her sentiments ; not a sin- 
gle article of luxury was to be seen, but 
everything presented a comfortable and ani- 
mated aspect : birds, vases filled with flow- 
ers, books, embroidery, and a piano. The 
girl possessed great natural talent for music ; 
she had likewise learned to draw, and had 
mastered the grammatical construction of 
her native language, which issued sweetly 
from her lips, and one approving smile from 
D’Arville amply repaid the pains she had 
taken with her tardy education. 

She had arranged the apartment in the 
manner she thought would please him best, 
and awaited him at first with confidence ; 
but as the hours crept on she became de- 
pressed, and a thousand anxious fears as«- 
sailed her. "Well has it been said, that : 
“ Hope deferred makes sick the soul 1” 

Suspense is, beyond all doubt, the most 
agitated feeling the human mind can suffer. 
Men hardly know what it is, they possess 
innumerable means of averting it; but a. 
woman — nailed to the house by a thousand 
conventionalities, condemned to bodily in- 
action whilst her mind is alternately tortur- 
ed by hope, and doubt, and fear ; reduced, 
as a last resource, to count the minutes 
by the clock, whose monotonous ticking 
pierces at every moment through the ave 
nue of her ears to her loving heart — be- 
holds minutes, hours, pass away, without 
the advent of him she dearly loves ! Ah I 
she who has not lingered in agonizing sus- 
pense, with hope always disappointed and 
yet still renewed, knows not the bitterness 
of suffering ! 

At length some steps were heard upon 
the narrow staircase; ’twas he, and a 
bright ray of joy passed over Giuditta’s 
long-clouded face. The door opened ! Oh ! 
how her heart beat; and then Luochesini 
stalked in, smiling with all the impudent 
confidence of his unrivalled self-possession. 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


73 


The girl’s heart darkened in despair; her 
hands, which had been raised in thankful- 
ness, dropped nervelessly by her side, and 
the surprise that was painted in her face 
did not conceal the exquisite bitterness of 
her cruel disappointment. 

Luigi had entered the room with the in- 
tention of explaining to Giuditta her precise 
position with Fernand openly, and without 
any preface, for he considered delicacy mis- 
placed in such matters, and always went 
straight to the point he aimed at. The girl 
took up her embroidery on seeing him, and 
bent over it to hide the traces of the tears 
upon her cheeks ; she was astonished at 
Lucchesini’s visit ; she never met him, if 
she could avoid it; for since her liaison 
with D’Arville all that recalled the past 
was odious to her ; and, so far as her gen- 
erous heart was susceptible of hatred, she 
detested the man who had laughed her 
prayers and tears to scorn, and compelled 
her to barter her honor for her mother’s 
life. 

The Prince threw himself upon the couch, 
on which he established himself comfort- 
ably, as if preparing for a lengthened inter- 
view, and coughing slightly, began the 
treaty thus : 

“ It is an age, lovely Giuditta, since we 
met, and thou see’st that I have respected 
thy honeymoon, which, sooth to say, has 
lasted much longer than could be expected 
from ‘ du Franqaise ni wlage^ but now it 
is over, or well-nigh so. Behold me, like a 
faithful friend as I am, ready to offer con- 
solation or advice at thy own choice ; and 
I pray thee to believe, sweet one, that any- 
thing I may say to thee in this our serious 
interview, will be dictated by feelings of the 
greatest consideration for thy happiness.” 

Giuditta felt, from this preamble, that 
some calamity was hanging over her, and 
her spirit revolted at Luchesini’s insolent 
familiarity. However, she did not allow 
her anger or her apprehensions to appear, 
but restrained herself to replying, coldly, 
that she did not doubt the sincerity of his 
highness’s intentions, that she would listen 
with the utmost attention to any communi- 
cation he had to make, but begged he would 
be as brief as possible, as she expected a 
visitor every minute. 

Luigi was slightly disconcerted by this 
calm reception, but recovering his natural 
cool impudence in a few moments, he re- 
clined negligently on the couch, and con- 
tinued his address : 

“ By Juno, and all the celestial goddesses, 
my pretty one ! if it is D’Arville thou ex- 
pectest, for whose dear presence thou 
wouldst kick me out so unceremoniously, I 
must beg thee to understand that we can 
converse agreeably without fear of being at 
all interrupted by him !” 

“Great Heaven!” Giuditta exclaimed, as 


the^ color fled from her cheek ; “ has any 
accident befallen him — is he hurt?” 

“Calm thy agitation, carina^ the dear 
friend is admirably well, and perfectly sound 
in all his limbs. I left him but now on the 
Villa Reale, quietly enjoying a cigar !” 

“ Thank Heaven ! and he commissioned 
you ” 

She stopped suddenly, for a secret pre- 
sentiment whispered to her that the coarse 
brutal man was about to tear the veil rudely 
from her eyes, and leave her to the terrible 
consciousness of all the horrors of her posi- 
tion, deprived of Fernand’s love. In the first 
naoment of her agony she entertained the 
idea of throwing herself at Lucchesini’s feet, 
and imploring him not to extinguish her last 
ray of hope, but her pride restrained her, 
and, making a mighty eff’ort, she armed her- 
self with resignation to receive the fatal 
blow. 

“Poor Fernand is much changed,! think,” 
the Prince said, listlessly, picking off the 
leaves of a rose that happened to be within 
his reach ; “ he is paler than he used to be 
— melancholy — I fear, unhappy. Ah I now 
I think of it, much in the same way as thy- 
self.” 

“ The alteration you speak of. Prince, has 
not escaped me. I have frequently asked 
M. d’Arville the reason, and he has always 
answered that he had lost large sums at 
play.” 

Luigi shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Fernand is not the man to mope over 
the loss of a little gold, and surely thon 
canst not be such a child as to believe the 
tale? No, no. Our friend’s suffering are 
all internal ; an unrequited passion is under- 
mining him, which thou must have seen, 
sweet Giuditta, if thou hadst not wilfully 
shut thine eyes.” 

“I do not seek,” she answered haughtily, 
though trembling at hearing the confirma- 
tion of her fears, “to inquire into those 
secrets which Fernand thinks fit to conceal 
from me ; no doubt, he will confide them to 
me when he thinks fit to do so.” 

Nothing so discomposes and annoys a 
good kind friend than to refuse to hear the 
bad news he is burning to communicate. 
Giuditta’s reply irritated the Prince, who 
continued, sarcastically : 

“ Thy discretion does thee honor, Jyellis- 
sima^ and if D’Arville himself had not 
charged me to enlighten thy happy igno- 
rance, I could willingly have left thee in it. 
But, such being the case, it is my duty to 
inform thee that Fernand detests gaming as 
much as I like it — and that is not a little I 
He never touches cards or dice, although, 
through false delicacy, he has cajoled you 
with the assertion, in order to hide the real 
cause of his absence from you. Had I been 
in his place, I should at once have told the 
truth, which is — Fernand is over head and 


74 


CLOUDED HAFEIUESS. 


ears in love with a married woman, half 
prude half coquette, who, on mine honor, 
makes him the most miserable hang-dog 
fellow upon earth.” 

Giuditta turned deadly pale, hut in an in- 
stant rage took possession of her; the blood 
rushed to her cheeks, and she darted a look 
of anger and contempt at Lucchesini. He 
saw it, and curled his lip contemptuously, 
and went on : 

“ Aye, aye, it is ever so with women, they 
love those who deceive them, and hate those 
who instruct them ! But it is even as I tell 
thee, child. Poor D’Arville is madly in love 
with an affected, painted, cunning French- 
woman, who will keep him forever dangling 
at her side to gratify her vanity. But he 
adores her like a silly boy ; she absorbs his 
every idea; and now, beauteous Giuditta, 
my friendly task is done.” 

The dark eyes of the cruelly outraged girl 
flashed fire. 

“ Why do you come here, dastardly man !” 
she cried, “to insult me with your con- 
fidence ? Why have you hastened hither to 
abuse my ears with your vile inventions? 
Could I believe that I had been so basely 
betrayed my vengeance should be terrible 
indeed ! Fernand in love with another, and 
a married woman, too ! I will not believe 
the calumny. Speak !” she almost shouted, 
rushing to the couch, and shaking Lucche- 
sini fiercely by the arm — “ Speak ! is it not 
a tale, signor — a tale cunningly devised to 
amuse yourself with my excited and jealous 
feelings ?” 

“ Cospe.tto^ adorable creature !” he replied 
to this impetuous apj)eal ; “ whqt wouldst 
thou have me say ? It would be but a dull 
joke to invent; but, unhappily for thy de- 
votion, all I have told thee is the lamentable 
truth. But really thou must not be too much 
enraged with poor Fernand ; we men are 
somewhat fickle — the women like us all the 
better for it; but, in addition to this dis- 
tinctive peculiarity of the sex, D’Arville pos- 
sesses other qualities, such as a romantic 
imagination, that creates all sorts of illusions 
in his mind. At present he labors under 
the delusion that his Dulcinea is a model of 
impregnable virtue, and all the obstacles she 
has adroitly thrown in his way have raised 
his enthusiasm to such a height that, by my 
life, he is half-way on his route to the sub- 
lime regions of Platonicism — a land with 
which thou art quite unacquainted, dear! 
With this passion gnawing at his heart, thou 
canst well imagine the full extent of his gen- 
erous nature in concealing it from thee so 
long ; but, as we chatted about it together 
on the Villa Beale, not an hour since, I saw 
he would never have the frankness to com- 
municate it to thee, and so, in all friendship, 
I became his ambassador — (;a n^tait pas 
plus difficile que 5a,’ as the French say, with 
the perspicuity of connoiseurs in such trifles 


as the changing of one’s mistress ; and so, 
my pretty Giuditta, if thou hast any real 
love for our dolorous friend thou wilt not 
hesitate to give him back his liberty.” 

Trembling and heart-broken, the half- 
fainting girl listened for some time to this 
fatal revelation, that destroyed her future 
hopes ; but as the Prince proceeded to utter 
these words, that pierced her soul like poi- 
soned arrows, he saw, from the livid pallor 
that spread upon her cheeks, and her con- 
vulsive fits, that he had gone too far, and he 
hastened to console her in his way. 

“Forgive me, my dear girl!” he said, 
with some reality of tone “ if I am com- 
pelled to distress you ; but believe me I am 
acting for your true interest, — both you and 
Fernand are suffering, because neither of 
you have the courage to free yourselves 
from a painful, false position !” 

“ That courage, signor, I shall never have. 
What ! separate willingly from my Fernand ! 
Never ! I could not exist without him ! I 
have centered in him my soul, my hopes, 
my life, and I am convinced he would not 
abandon me. Leave me, signor ! You do 
not know that noble heart that you calum- 
niate. You have deceived me. Prince, yon 
have sported with my fears. Ah ! no ! he 
never could have said he did not love 
me.” 

“Why, this is very midsummer mad- 
ness !” the Prince said angrily ; “ it is folly 
to talk reason to a woman who will not see 
the truth, although it is as clear as the sun 
at noon-day. I repeat it, Giuditta, openly, 
without the slightest reservation, that D’Ar- 
ville does not love you, — that he never did 
love you : and for this excellent reason, that 
long before he came to Naples he was deep- 
ly enamored of Lady Melrose, whom he 
knew before her marriage, and whom at one 
time he was to have married.” 

“ Lady Melrose !” Giuditta shrieked ; 
“ Oh ! do not tell me that he has always 
loved another. Oh! Heaven!” she con- 
tinued, lifting up her swimming eyes ; 
“ leave me at least the memory of the past, 
that this inhuman man would now destroy. 
And you, ruthless, degraded noble, — you 
who were my pitiless destroyer! — do you 
come here to banquet on my misery, and 
revel a second time in my overwhelming 
anguish ? Take pity on me ; have mercy, 
and retract those crushing words. Leave 
me the feeble consolation tliat he has loved 
me a day, an hour — one instant ! Let not 
the fatal remembrance of his attachment to 
this puppet of a Frenchwoman come forever 
between me and his love ; let me not de- 
spair, whilst thinking that I have been to 
him only as the flower he casts from him 
when he has inhaled its sweet perfume !” 

“For Heaven’s sake, Giuditta, do not 
give way to despair ; you are young, and 
very beautiful; a happy, bright career is 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


75 


open to you, by far more splendid than Fer- 
nand could ever offer.” 

“ A bright career ! A happy future ! 
Alas ! there can be no future happiness for 
me ! Of wliat avail are this beauty and this 
youth, if they cannot retain for me the only 
treasure I covet upon earth ?” 

‘‘ You are wrong, Giuditta; you do not 
sufficiently appreciate the realities of exist- 
ence, which are not of the sombre hue your 
mad passion clothes them in. Of all the 
troubles that assail the human heart there 
are none so sharp as those which spring 
from love, and none that are assuaged so 
easily. Instead of weeping and moaning, 
like a heroine in some stale romance, think 
of the numerous advantages that fate has 
given to you ; advantages that place fortune 
and happiness within your hands, whenever 
you may please to grasp them. Calm your 
agitation, be sensible, and listen to the 
counsels of cool reason ; they displease you 
now, but some day you will recognize their 
truth, and thank me for giving them to you. 
Another word, and I have done. Fernand 
has often mentioned to me your perfect dis- 
interestedness, the absence of all selfishness 
in your character, and the regret he felt at 
not being able to make you independent. I 
can conceive that delicacy of feeling towards 
the man you loved, and who was not rich 5 
but, in quitting him, it would be folly to 
curry this feeling to extremes, and leave 
yourself entirely destitute of the means of 
providing for your wants.” 

The Prince poured out these common-place 
phrases of mingled praise and consolation 
with some show of feeling, but they fell 
upon a deaf ear ; and, meeting no response 
from the broken-hearted girl, he mistook 
her passive silence, her mute despair, for 
resignation to the fate she could not control, 
and thought to improve his advantage by 
holding out bright visions of future splendor 
to her. 

“ There is a man,” he said, “ who is dying 
for you ; a nobleman, still young, handsome, 
generous, and rich beyond belief, — in fact, 
the husband of your rival. Think of the 
exquisite revenge that presents itself to you, 
Giuditta; you will possess the power of 
Imrniliating the pride, of blasting the liappi- 
ness of the woman you detest ; and if you 
are still weak enough to love Fernand, re- 
flect that your beauty, heightened by superb 
robes, and glittering in jewels, — that your- 
self, sought after by the highest in the land, 
and worshipped by crowds of humbler 
adorers, — may bring the recreant back, a 
penitent to your feet. Poverty and grief 
are powerless ; and if D’Arville did not love 
you, did it arise, think you, from the circum- 
stance of your singing in the streets, from 
your being a model in the studios? No ! it 
was because your nature was too self-deny- 
ing, too noble for him. Descend from that 


pedestal to which the grandeur of your pas- 
sion has elevated you ; become a woman — 
fickle, false, and vain ; despoil your rival of 
her husband, laugh at her bitter tears, ruin 
Melrose with your extravagance, and then 
you will find that Fernand will adore you!” 

Giuditta started at these despicable 
words ; quivering with rage, she scorn- 
fully surveyed the debauchee from head 
to foot, as she replied : 

“ Signor ! despite your wealth, your cor- 
onet, I — sprung from a lowly rank — I tell 
you, you are a villian ! Hence ! Begone I” 

Yielding to the dignity of her action and 
the noble expression of her countenance, 
Lucchesini — ashamed of the villainous part 
he had played, and cursing the complai- 
sance which had induced him to do so, rose 
and quitted the room without uttering a 
word, and Giuditta was left alone in her 
despair. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

( ■ 

At first she gave way to a burst of the 
fiercest indignation ; she felt the most ardent 
desire for a terrible revenge, an unquench- 
able thirst to hurl back upon her pitiless 
tormentor the cruel anguish with which he 
had rent her heart. She thought that she 
would pursue Fernand with inextinguish- 
able hatred, crush him with her bitter 
curses in the presence of the woman he 
preferred, and break his heart as he had 
broken that which breathed alone for him. 
Presently she was ashamed of the trans- 
ports of her rage ; she felt that all angry, 
violent efibrts would be useless, and that 
revenge will never succeed in reluming the 
ashes of extinct love. Gradually she be- 
came more calm, she recollected all Fer- 
nand’s kindness to her, she solaced herself 
with the idea that the words uttered by 
Lucchesini had not proceeded from the 
man she adored, and that his mouth had 
not pronounced the fatal word “ depart.” 

And what right had she, she thought, to 
expect more than compassion from him? 
Why should her selfish passion restrict his 
future brilliant prospects ? But then, again, 
her resignation waned, and her loss seemed 
to her too great to bear; the abyss of 
misery that opened beneath her feet af- 
frighted her with its profundity, and she 
entertained the purpose of rushing to him, 
throwing herself at his feet, and imploring 
the blessing, the support of liis fostering 
love, as the starving mendicant begs humbly 
for a bit of bread. 

She approached the open window that 
looked upon the terrace, whence the light 
breeze wafted the perfume of the jessamine 


76 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


to her throbbing brow ; gradually the fear- 
ful excitement of her mind decreased, and, 
as the shadows of the past rushed across her, 
her head fell upon her breast, and she lifted 
up her voice and wept. 

Oh ! bitterly indeed did the poor girl 
mourn over the remembrance of her short 
life of vice and misery ! She reflected with 
deep regret upon her solitary childhood, — 
upon those days when, totally neglected, 
she blossomed uncultured, like a flower of 
the field, and, reclining on the grass, be- 
neath the shade of the orange trees in 
Monna Peppina’s garden, looked up to the 
azure sky, and dreamed of what her future 
lot might be. Anon, her thoughts reverted 
to the miserable garret, her mother’s fright- 
fal death, and to her unavailing martyr- 
dom, — her own dishonor! And then she 
recalled her pleased emotion on the day 
she first saw Fernand when, kneeling be- 
fore the cross, she prayed earnestly to “ the 
Man of Sorrows” to vouchsafe to her a ref- 
uge from despair, one ray of hope amidst 
the desolation of her sin, one beam of con- 
solation in the agony of her unceasing suf- 
ferings. 

Heaven heard the prayer, and, taking 
pity on the girl, mercifully accorded to her 
that regenerative principle by which eter- 
nal light was poured upon that dark be- 
nighted soul. The veil was rent by pitying 
Providence from her blinded eyes, and 
when once the seeds of good were sown 
they germinated rapidly, and the ransomed 
soul detached itself gradually from the 
things of earth, and approached more 
closely to its God. 

Poor Giuditta! She was far from sub- 
duing her insensate passion ; but in the an- 
guish of her betrayal she humbly trusted 
that her deep grief might be accepted as an 
expiation, and she hoped for death as a de- 
liverance. 

When sorrow comes upon us in our youth, 
we think — weak creatures as we are — that 
we have but to bend the head in meekness, 
to lie down, and die. We are not then 
aware of the pith and sinew, the fearful 
energy, the powerful vitality of our despair ; 
and we only learn the painful lesson when, 
after years have drawn their weary lengths 
along*, we have seen thousands of withered 
hearts glide slowly to the grave, whilst 
others, made of sterner stuff, harden to 
adamant, and still live on. 

The last streaks of twilight showed faintly 
on the horizon, the moon rode brightly in 
the heavens, surrounded by the starry host, 
and Giuditta, silent and motionless, was ab- 
sorbed in meditation, although at intervals 
her spirit would arouse itself, and she would 
address to Heaven one of those vague pray- 
ers, the last wailing cry of a broken heart, 
whose wishes are as confused and uncer- 
tain as its hopes. 


When the atheist asserts that man has 
sprung from the dust, only to return to it 
when his breath shall be scattered in the air, 
and that the immortality of the soul is but 
the silly dream of weak,* enthusiastic, super- 
stitious minds, what more conclusive an- 
swer can there be to the futile statement 
than those natural appeals to the mercy and 
support of Heaven, that instinctive prayer 
which the mind invariably makes, and With 
which it seeks to solace itself in all mo- 
ments of unusual grief. 

Yielding to the exhaustion her mental 
struggles had induced, Giuditta cast herself 
upon the couch, and when sleep fell upon 
her lids, numbers of fantastic visions and 
singular delusions passed through her ex- 
cited brain. She dreamed that, masked and 
armed with a stiletto, she was pursuing 
Fernand and Lady Melrose through a garden 
brilliantly illuminated for a fete ; she saw 
them walking all lovingly beneath high 
trees sparkling with many-colored lamps, 
but they soon left the broad alleys and 
plunged into intricate narrow paths, beset 
with briars and bordered with hemlock, 
nightshade, and other deadly plants. Her 
feet were pierced by the sharp thorns at 
every step she took, her garments were left 
in strips on every bush through which she 
passed, yet she dashed on until she reached 
her faithless lover ; she had seized her rival 
by the long tresses of her auburn hair, and, 
brandishing the dagger, was about to bury 
it in her heart, when a cold fleshless hand 
AVas laid upon her arm. She turned, and 
beheld the livid spectre of her mother, The- 
resa Castelli, standing between her victim 
and herself, and waving her away; but, 
furious at the interruption, and foaming like 
a lioness robbed of her cubs, she threw the 
apparition on one side, and again raised her 
hand to strike her shrieking victim, when 
the phantom darted violently upon her, and 
tore off’ the medallion she always wore upon 
her neck. 

Giuditta started, struggled in her dream 
against the horrid violence of the spectre, 
and then awoke. At first she thought that 
action of the mind, which so often repro- 
duces sentiments in sleep, had brought the 
image of the detested Valerie before her; 
but as she raised herself she had an indis- 
tinct impression that there was some dark 
object in the room, and rubbing her eyes 
and looking steadfastly towards it, the im- 
aginary terrors of her dream were lost iu 
those of actual peril. 

By the pale liglit of the moon, which at 
that moment emerged from a bank of clouds, 
she beheld a man crouching in a dark corner 
of the room ; it seemed to her that this in- 
dividual had retired precipitately and tried 
to conceal himself as she started up ; and, 
from the pressure she felt upon her neck, 
she supposed he was a robber, who, enticed 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


77 


by the glittering of the gold chain by which 
the medallion her mother gave to her, when 
dying, was suspended, had essayed to steal 
it from her in her sleep. 

At first she felt an indescribable horror 
at being alone at that late hour of the night 
with a desperate man, who no doubt would 
not hesitate at the commission of any 
villany ; but presently she recollected that 
life was naught, now that Fernand had 
abandoned her, and reft of his love she tran- 
quilly resigned herself to die, although 
death came upon her in that sudden, san- 
guinary form which sometimes will appal 
the stoutest hearts. 

“ Give me but a moment’s time to breathe 
a prayer,” she murmured, “ and then kill 
me if you will.” 

“ For ever and ever the same ridiculous, 
romantic folly!” was uttered harshly by a 
voice whose accents were not altogether 
unknown to her ; “ because this French 
puppet will have no more of thee thou must 
offer thy throat, like a pretty, gentle lamb 
to the first knife that would slit it open. 
Come 1 come I no nonsense, but be sensible, 
and listen to me, for I have something to 
tell thee.” 

The girl stood mute, trembling with hor- 
ror as she recognized her brutal brother 
Beppo ; fear had chilled the current of her 
blood, and her soul seemed to fleet away 
before the ineffable disgust with which he 
had inspired her. In fact, the bandit’s as- 
pect was so eminently calculated to produce 
that feeling : the terms “ robber and mur- 
derer” were legibly stamped upon that coun- 
tenance, once like a seraphim’s, — his eyes, 
once so soft and beautiful, were now blood- 
shot, and glared fiercely, like those of a 
tiger-cat, — his fair, curled hair hung in long 
unkempt matted locks upon his shoulders, 
— excesses had dug large furrows in his 
blotchy cheeks, and his lips were swollen 
and discolored. A dark mantle imperfectly 
concealed a soiled costume, much stained 
with wine, and several pistols and naked 
daggers, which betrayed the thief, the hired 
murderer, and professional assassin. 

Beppo ignited a lamp by means of a phos- 
phorus box, filled and lighted a pipe, estab- 
lished himself at his ease in one of the arm 
chairs, and then demanded wine, Giuditta, 
fearing to irritate the ruffian by a refusal, 
brought it to him, and then sunk half-faint- 
ing on the couch. 

“ And now, sweet sister of mine,” the vil- 
lain said, when he had emptied a large cup 
at a draught, “ let us come to business. 
This Parisian butterfly, I am told, has cut 
you, left you dead in the lurch, and he must 
answer for it. Do you think we will suffer 
ourselves to be robbed? Why you are 
lodged here like the mistress of a paltry tax- 
gatherer, and it is asserted that you have 
not even a carriage 1 A pretty fellow indeed 


he must be I A rich ambassador, i’faith! 
Per Bacco ! h 3 is nothing more than a needy 
attache, and poor as a lazzarone, and no 
doubt has lived upon your beauty. A pretty 
fellow, by the mass ! to take our means of 
living from us!” 

“ You are wrong, brother,” Giuditta re- 
plied ; .“M. d’Arville has always behaved in 
the handsomest manner to me. If I am not 
in more luxuriously furnished apartments it 
is because he certainly is not a rich man, 
and I have always refused to accept from 
him unnecessary things that I did not 
want.” 

“ Aye ! aye ! just like your usual sim- 
plicity, — and see what it has brought you 
to! He chucks you away like a bit of 
orange-peel. Oh ! do not try to make ex- 
cuses for your dainty spark. I have been 
much longer in this neighborhood than you 
think for, and, as I hid myself behind that 
door, I heard all the Prince Lucchesini said 
to you ; and, by my beard ! he is not half 
the fool he looks, and he gave you some 
excellent advice !” 

“ As for that, brother,” Giuditta answered 
firmly, “ you will allow me to be tlie best 
judge of my own actions ; you can form 
any opinion you choose, but I am sure we 
are not likely to agree.” 

Beppo drank another draught of wine, 
leaned his elbows on the table, fixed his 
eyes upon Giuditta, and said, after a mo- 
ment’s silence : 

“ As thou wilt, sister ; but it appears to 
me that thou — wiio protest so loudly about 
delicacy of feeling and pride, and all such 
stuff ; considering that thy fickle swain has 
cast thee off, and with the indignity of send- 
ing thee a message through a third party — 
wouldst do well to leave his house before 
he kicks thee out.” 

The proud girl started as if she had been 
wounded by some sharp-pointed weapon, 
the fire of disdain and anger sparkled in her 
eyes, and, without examining the motives 
that induced her wily brother to make the 
observation, she at once adopted his view 
of her situation. 

“ You are right,” she cried, with the ut- 
most indignation, “ quite right, Beppo ! 
The first outbreak of my grief had made me 
forget the respect I owe to myself ; I thank 
you for reminding me of it. I will not re- 
main another moment in these rooms; 
were I to think, perhaps I should want 
courage to make the sacrifice!” 

“It is late,” Beppo answered cunningly, 
feigning some embarrassment and anxiety 
for his sister . “ where canst thou go at this 
late hour ? Thou wilt find some difficulty 
in obtaining an apartment.” 

“ And if so, Beppo,” the poor girl said, 
with a deep sigh, as she thought of her 
mother’s death, “it will not be the first time 
I have passed the night in the streets, and, 


78 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


Heaven only knows, it may not be the 
last!” 

‘‘ No, Giuditta, that shalt never he whilst 
I possess a home. If thou canst not procure 
a lodging to-night, thou shalt pass it with 
Beatrice and me.” 

“Never!” she replied, “never, Beppo ! 
Oh ! can I ever forget the wretched scene, 
the outrage that nearly cost me my life, 
wliich occurred when we last met. I have 
sworn never to set my foot again within 
your door, and I will keep my oath.” 

“ Well, well,” Beppo replied, with as- 
sumed carelessness, “I don’t mean to press 
you. I am only sorry for it on account of 
poor Beatrice, who does nothing but rave 
about you night and day.” 

“ And why does she do so Gipditta in- 
quired, with considerable interest. 

“ I don’t exactly know the why, sister ; 
she told me something — but then my un- 
happy wife, you know—” 

“ What, Beppo, what ?” 

“ She is dying, and from a complaint not 
unknown to you, Giuditta.”— (He pointed 
to some empty bottles.) — “ Truly, I do not 
think that she will live through the night. 
Ah! now I have it! She said to me: ‘Go 
to dear Giuditta, tell her not to refuse my 
dying prayer, and to come to me and con- 
sole me in my last moments.’ I told her 
you were a great lady now, and would not 
come, but she persisted that you would.” 

The girl’s generous heart forgot her own 
sufferings in her desire to alleviate those of 
Beatrice. 

“ Beatrice was right, Beppo,” she said, as 
she made some slight preparations to leave 
the house ; “ she was quite right in count- 
ing upon any aid that I may alford her. I 
will go with you instantly.” 

A fiendish grin passed across Beppo’s 
features, but his victim did not see it. In a 
few minutes her little dispositions were all 
made, but before she left her room she 
placed the stiletto in her waistband, kneeled 
down before the crucifix, and prayed for the 
safety of her own soul and that of Beatrice. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Giuditta followed her brother through 
several dark narrow streets until she be- 
came quite tired, and as they appeared to 
be leaving Naples behind them, and to be 
gaining the open country, she asked Beppo 
where he lived ; but he did not answer, and 
walked on until they stopped before the 
folding-gates of a large sombre house in a 
deserted street, and then he said emphatic- 
ally : “ Here !” 

Despite the energy and firmness of her 


character Giuditta began to feel fear creep- 
ing to her heart ; heavy clouds obscured the 
moon, flashes of vivid lightning pierced 
through the murky masses of the clouds, 
big drops of rain began to fall, the thunder 
rolled hoarsely in the distance, and her 
brother’s ferocious look, as it was revealed 
to her in the intervals of the storm, filled 
her with dismay. It seemed to her excited 
imagination that every moment his voice 
acquired a sinister croak, his eyes glared 
more ifiercely, and she perceived he kept his 
hand upon his belt, to make sure his arms 
were safe, and to have them ready for im- 
mediate use. 

“Holy Virgin! have pity on me!” the 
affrighted girl murmured, struggling to con- 
ceal her deadly fears ; but Beppo, hearing 
the exclamation, threw a contemptuous 
glance upon her, and then turning a massive 
key with great difliculty in the rusty lock 
of the ponderous gates, he opened them, 
pushed his sister in before him, and she 
found herself in the vast court-yard of a de- 
serted building, which in its palmy days had 
undoubtedly been a suburban residence of 
some rich signor. 

Large quantities of nettles, lank grass, and 
parasitical plants had grown beneath the 
stones, and now, being wet with the rain, 
rendered the passage across it painful to the 
delicately-shod Oastelli ; and the mournful 
hooting of the obscene bird of night, mingling 
with the howling of the wind, raised a sus- 
picion in her mind that mortal violence was 
contemplated, and that she should not leave 
that spot alive. 

However, she possessed no power of re- 
treating ; so, recommending her soul to 
Heaven, she traversed the yard, half-sup- 
ported by her brother’s arm and half- 
dragged by him, and arrived at some broken 
steps, leading through an open door to the 
vestibule of the house, behind which there 
appeared to be an orchard. Beppo strode 
iu, cursing the rain, which now fell heavily, 
but Giuditta — although shelter was so neces- 
sary — hesitated to follow him. 

“ Your abode is solitary and desolate, in- 
deed, brother,” she said, every accent of her 
voice betraying her uneasiness ; “ have you 
had the heart to leave Beatrice alone in such 
a mournful ruin ?” 

“ That matters not to thee,” he answered, 
seizing his sister’s arm, and pulling her to- 
wards him with brutal violence ; “in with 
you ! March !” But Giuditta struggled with 
all her force, andnmplored him not to harm 
her. 

“Brother!” she exclaimed, in a solemn 
tone, clasping her hands together, and 
elevating them in the attitude of prayer, 
“ if you have abused my confiding nature 
by drawing me into a snare,— if you medi- 
tate a deed I dread to think of,— recollect 
that the curse of my dying moments will 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


79 


pursue you, and that you cannot escape from 
the vengeance of the Almighty God, who 
holds the orphan in his care. And now I 
will follow you.” 

“ Well-acted enough, my dainty sister,” 
the ruffian answered, with a sneer ; “ quite 
a little pathetic melodrama — what a pity 
you are not upon the boards! Now the 
trembling fool thinks that I am about to let 
daylight into her throat 1 But not so, I am 
not fool enough to kill the goose that lays 
my golden eggs. What do I want with you 
here, you wonder! Why this — that you 
may be rich, so that I may have my share 
of the spoil!” 

Again taking his sister roughly by the 
arm, Beppo drew her to the entrance of an 
apparently long corridor, and then, taking 
thirty steps, he counted out aloud, he felt 
for a door on his right hand, and finding it, 
immediately opened it, thrust Giuditta in, 
shut and double-locked it, and, as she 
thought, withdrew on tiptoe, leaving her in 
total darkness in a room, which she judged 
to be large and lofty from the echoing of her 
own faltering steps. 

For a quarter of an hour, which seemed 
to her interminable, the unhappy girl re- 
mained in mortal dread, without hearing the 
slightest noise or seeing the least ray of 
light; her mind presaged the perpetration 
of some horrid crime, without her compre- 
hending its extent ; but then she reflected, 
that if Beppo intended to destroy her he 
might have done so without repairing to 
that ruin, for he could easily have killed her 
in her own apartments, and numberless op- 
portunities of doing so, where not a cry 
would have been heard, had offered them- 
selves upon the route. She was bewildered 
in conjectures, when she heard a whispered 
conversation in an adjoining room, and 
guided by the sounds, and groping her way 
cautiously by the panelling of the walls to 
the spot whence they proceeded, she recog- 
nized the voice of her brother, speaking in 
a low key, and with great respect. 

The first words she caught distinctly were : 
“ You see, Excellenza, that I have perform- 
ed my part of the contract; the girl is here, 
perfectly disposed to receive the honor of 
your visits, and to revenge herself upon her 
faithless lover, and I hope your Excellency 
will pay me the five hundred ducats you 
promised in case I should succeed. The 
bird is trapped, with what may follow I 
have nothing at all to do.” 

Giuditta stifled the shriek that had well- 
nigh burst forth at finding herself betrayed 
into the power of an unknown man ; and 
then she heard the gold, the price of her re- 
newed dishonor, told down piece by piece. 
But who could her vile purchaser be ? She 
could not even guess by his voice, for 
he had not answered Beppo, or, if he had, 
had spoken in so low a tone that she could 


not imagine who he was. Happily for La 
Castelli her courage rose, now that she had 
ascertained the true nature of her danger, 
in proportion to its imminence ; she did not 
faint away or exhaust her strength in useless 
lamentations, as all weak-minded women 
do, but she nerved herself to resist the ag- 
p-ession of the villain who had bought her 
in the best way she could. 

Love — all-powerful love! — furnished her 
with that energy which in the generality of 
females would have been supplied by the 
desire to defend their virtue. That wliich 
belonged to Fernand alone she resolved 
should never be another’s ; to him she had 
owed her rescue from the degradation that 
had environed her on every side ; she was 
his by every tie of gratitude, and her recov- 
ered honor should only be again torn from 
her with the loss of life. 

She dropped humbly upon her knees, 
prayed fervently to the Queen of Heaven to 
support her in the terrific trial she saw she 
must undergo, and rose from her knees with 
the conviction that she would be sustained 
in the forthcoming struggle. Presently a 
key was turned quickly in the lock, the door 
was opened, a flood of light was poured into 
the room, and Giuditta started back as she 
beheld — my Lord Melrose. 

It has been stated in a ])receding chapter 
that, absorbed in her ])assionate attachment 
to Fernand, the lovely young Italian had 
not perceived the passion she had excited 
in the Earl ; and now, with the recollection 
that he had been introduced to her by 
D’Arville, whom he styled his friend, words 
could not paint the indignation and con- 
tempt she felt at his vile treachery. 

Casting a hasty glance around her, to as- 
certain whether the English nobleman was 
quite alone, she saw that the room in which 
she had been confined presented a most mys- 
terious contrast to the general appearance 
of the house. It was furnished with almost 
regal magnificence ; nothing had been neg- 
lected that could make this epicurean re- 
treat a concentration of voluptuous delights; 
and Giuditta, as she stood in the centre of 
the room in her simple peasant’s dress — 
pale, worn, and exhausted by contending 
emotions — appeared a stain upon the gor- 
geous scene. But there was so much dig- 
nity in her unstudied attitude, such deter- 
mination in her look, that the Earl, deceiv- 
ed by Beppo into the belief that he should 
find a willing slave, prompt to listen to his 
behests, and now beheld only a deeply-of- 
fended woman, did not dare address her. 
He perceived with surprise that she survey- 
ed with unconcealed disgust the statues and 
paintings with which he had adorned his 
Paphian retreat — this Isle of Caprem — 
where he relieved the monotony of his mat- 
rimonial life. 

Here it was his wont to sit, like an east- 


80 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


ern sultan, surrounded by his odalisques, 
who repaid the outlay of his wealth by 
flattering and amorous attentions to which 
he was little used at home, where Valerie 
was in the habit of absorbing all the praise. 

The Earl found himself in a most embar- 
rassing position ; he began to think that the 
brigand had been playing upon him, and 
that Giuditta had become the victim of a 
nefarious plot ; but since she was there, and 
every look increased his passion, he made 
up his mind that, if possible, she should not 
escape. However, before he had deter- 
mined in what manner he should accost 
her, Giuditta broke the silence by saying 
hastily : 

“ Why have I been ensnared here, my 
lord ? What would you with me ?” 

The question was undoubtedly a plain 
one, but its very simplicity made it difficult 
to answer. Lord Melrose saw that no sub- 
terfuge could avail him, that an avowal of 
his intentions must be made ; and, advanc- 
ing towards the giid, he said : 

“ You are here, angelic creature, because 
your surpassing beauty has made me a 
traitor to my friend, — because I adore you, 
— because I know you are deserted, spurned, 
reduced almost to want, — and because I will 
make you rich, the most envied and envi- 
able of women.” 

A bitter smile passed across Giuditta’s 
face. 

“ My lord,” she replied, “ you have been 
deceived : you cannot contribute to my 
happiness, — Giuditta Castelli cannot be 
bought!” 

“ I know,” Lord Melrose answered, “ that 
all the mines of Golconda do not contain 
wealth enough to compensate for one hour 
of your love, — but let me place this coronet 
of diamonds on your queenly brow, let me 
attach these rows of orient pearls around 
your swan-like neck, permit me to robe 
your unrivalled shape with these Cashmere 
shawls and the most costly tissues that In- 
dia can supply. An empress in the splendor 
of your lustrous beauty, Giuditta, you shall 
be so by your raagniticence, and I will be 
the most humble of your slaves !” 

As Lord Melrose spoke he forcibly fastened 
a brooch of brilliants on the bosom of her 
dress, and heaped on a divan bracelets and 
necklaces of precious stones, gold chains of 
the finest workmanship, rich shawls, and 
several of those gorgeous nick-nacks tliat 
so often tempt a woman to her fall ; but, 
whilst she coldly repulsed them all, and he 
was striving to make her comprehend their 
value, the door, which he had not locked, 
was thrown open violently, and tlie Duchess 
de Marignan, Fernand, and Lady Melrose, 
presented themselves before the astonished 
Earl! 

The Duchess was the first to speak : fan- 
ning herself furiously, she said : 


“ I was not misinformed ! We had better 
retire, for I perceive his lordship is en- 
gaged !” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Before proceeding further with our tale 
we must retrace our steps, in order to ex- 
plain this strange disconcertion of the Earl’s 
projects, and to show the reasons that in- 
duced a person so prudent and experienced 
as the dowager to interfere in the episode 
detailed in the preceding chapter. 

The Duchess arrived at Naples, accom- 
panied by Augustus de Parab^re, whom 
she had destined to play the part of antidote 
to the poison with which Fernand d’Ar- 
ville was thought to threaten Valerie’s 
matrimonial life. 

At an advanced period of life, and hav- 
ing been a widow for many years, she had 
certainly forgotten that interesting pecu- 
liarity in married life, which shows that 
the husband always confides in his dear 
treacherous friend who seeks to wear his 
happiness, and invariably shuts his eyes 
against the danger that threatens him, and 
entertains the strongest suspicions in a 
quarter wherein none can possibly arise. 

Like the generality of mankind the Earl 
of Melrose had fallen into precisely the 
same mistake, and whilst he authorized — 
even solicited — D’Arville to give his arm to 
the Countess in their promenades, and es- 
cort her to the Opera, he looked with a 
jealous eye upon the young Parisian ex- 
quisite, with his curled moustache, curling 
scented locks, and vapid smile, and who 
had intruded upon his domestic circle under 
the patronage of the Duchess de Marignan. 
Of a verity there was no sympathy be- 
tween the venerable lady and the English 
peer. From certain words which he had 
heard her mutter, at moments when she 
was not quite upon her guard, he suspected 
she was acquainted with one black incident 
in his early life, which it was most import- 
ant to him should never meet the light; 
and she, haughty and domineering, accus- 
tomed, with all the wilful imperiousness of 
bygone days, to reign supreme in her own 
household, and to thwart and check her 
grand-daughter and dependents without let 
or hinderance, was amazed to find that this 
weak-minded, frigid, apathetic lord should 
dare to be independent of her wishes, and 
presume to act in accordance with his will. 
It is true that, by dexterous insinuations, 
adroit well-timed observations, she was con- 
tinually exacting handsome presents from 
him, but she was not by any means his 
staunch ally, and the least overt disposition 
to revolt upon his part would have drawn 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


81 


from her an immediate declaration of her 
implacable and lasting hostility. 

The Earl, madly in love with Giuditta 
Castelli, neglecting his wife, and consigning 
her without the slightest apprehension to 
the care of D’Arville, who he fancied was 

devotedly attached to the beautiful Ital- 
ian as he was himself, saw the arrival of 
Madame de Marignan and the Viscount 
with the greatest wrath and uneasiness, for he 
feared the dowager’s prying eye, accurate 
judgment, and acute perception ; and, as 
notwithstanding his long residence in Paris 
he w'as essentially English in his prejudices, 
he conceived an instant deadly hatred for 
the flutterer de Parabere, who, on his part, 
increased the Earl’s aversion by the in- 
solent manner in which he conducted him- 
self towards him. 

Augustus de Parabere was one of those 
gay coxcombs who, founding their belief 
upon some worn-out farces and obsolete 
vaudevilles, imagine that Englishmen centre 
their happiness in gorging enormous quan- 
tities of roast beef and plum-pudding, and 
have not an idea beyond the attentions ab- 
solutely necessary for their horses and their 
hounds ; that they speak the broken dialect 
affected by the actors on the French 
stage, who delude themselves wnth the idea 
that they are representing Englishmen ; that 
they wear no other costume than light-blue 
coats with bright metal buttons, nankeen 
pantaloons much too short in the legs, and 
high stiff-starched shirt-collars that threaten 
to cut their ears off ; and that they season 
their phrases at almost every other word 
with that oath, which — according to Figaro 
— forms the basis of their language. 

According to the Viscount’s ideas and 
appreciation of a Briton, ‘Lord Melrose — 
being one — possessed all the distinctive pe- 
culiarities of his nation, and was made only 
to be laughed at ; and the consequence was, 
tliat whilst De Parabere rattled on, uttering 
every ridiculous thought that came upper- 
most, and believing he was gaining a repu- 
tation for wit and talent in the estimation 
of all who happened to be present, the Earl, 
silent and reserved, spoke only at intervals, 
and always to the purpose ; and whilst the 
brainless Viscount flattered himself that he 
was concealing the stupid jokes he indulged 
in at the islander with the most exquisite 
finesse, and was laughing in his sleeve at 
his own admirably cloaked sarcastic witti- 
cisms, the latter, without moving a muscle 
of his countenance or betraying his contempt 
and indignation by a single gesture, was 
balancing with his natural phlegm, the rela- 
tive advantages of throwing Augustus de 
Parabere through the window or kicking 
him down stairs. 

A fierce straggle had taken place in the 
Earl’s breast, between the polite conven- 
tionalities of society and his ardent desire to 

r 


commence a system of reprisals on the 
Frenchman. Worn out at length with his 
impertinence, and the familiar tone in which 
he always addressed Valerie, Lord Melrose 
had notified, seriously and firmly, to her 
that he interdicted the society of M. de Pa- 
rab^re, immediately before the moment 
when Fernand, insulted by his rival and the 
Duchess, had quitted the hotel. Her lady- 
ship, reckoning upon her cousin as a mere 
dupe, an invaluable auxiliary to excite Fer- 
nand’s jealousy and increase his passion, 
murmured against this, the first command 
her passive husband had imposed upon her; 
she remonstrated vainly against it, and, 
having failed to mollify her husband, she 
became furious, and detailed all her griev- 
ances to her stately grandmother — that 
venerable, right-minded lady — who vowed 
a deep revenge, which was not long in pre- 
senting itself to her hands. 

It happened at that time that Beppo Cas- 
telli was in one of those financial situations 
which had now become exceedingly familiar 
to him ; he had ventured to come into Na- 
ples at the risk of the hanging he had 
deserved a thousand times, but with the de- 
termination of deriving as much pecuniary 
benefit from his visit as he could, by way 
of counterpoise to the danger he incurred, 
and chance, the protecting divinity of all 
profligates, had served him at his need. 

By means of his spies — who frequently 
came into Naples in various disguises, to 
gain that information which enabled him to 
sketch those pictures which were filled in 
by armed brigands on the king’s highway — 
he had ascertained Giuditta’s real position, 
and the wealthy nobleman’s passion, for 
her. 

Acting upon this information he opened a 
negotiation with Lord Melrose,, and engaged 
— in consideration of the payment of a con- 
siderable sum of money — to bring his sister, 
whom he represented to be a perfectly con- 
senting party, to his lordship’s Paphian 
bower. And here, by way of slightly ex- 
culpating the Earl from the blame of the 
part he took in the abduction, it must be- 
stated that he firmly believed the highly- 
colored, exaggerated representations Beppo- 
had made to him of his sister’s antecedents, 
and that he had not the least idea of Giur 
ditta’s devotion to Fernand, and the disin- 
terestedness of her disposition. He had 
judged her by his experience of women of 
that degraded class, and he fancied, naturally 
enough, that a rich English nobleman, at his 
time of life, could not fail to supersede the 
insignificant, and comparatively poor,, Fer- 
nand d’Arville. 

However, Beppo, who was a finished dip- 
lomatist in his way, was not at all content 
with this one single plot, but established a 
treaty also with the Duchess de Marignan, 
the results of which will soon be seenq, and 


82 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


now we will return to the current of our 
tale. 

When Prince Lucchesini left the weeping 
Giuditta, he felt himself much moved for 
the first time in his life. He had never 
known a serious attachment ; his liaisons 
had been always formed upon casual caprice, 
without his heart ever being touched ; they 
had always taken place with women as 
tlioughtless, dissipated, and selfish as him- 
self, and equally incapable of a sincere at- 
tachment, and whom he had left without a 
moment’s hesitation, without any ill-feeling, 
and without regret. Giuditta’s excessive 
grief struck him, consequently, as a very 
singular moral and physical phenoinenon; it 
excited as much sympathy as his hlme heart 
could feel ; and, repairing to D’Arville, he 
informed him, without entering into the de- 
tails of the painful scene, of the overwhelm- 
ing misery the girl was plunged in at the 
first insinuation that he was about to quit 
her ; and he also told him frankly he would 
do well to break the intelligence very grad- 
ually to Giuditta, for he feared the sudden 
announcement of separation might produce 
some terrible catastrophe. 

“ You were right,” Luigi said ; “ that 
silly girl adores you ; and had I anticipated 
that she would have indulged in the foolish 
pranks I witnessed, I would have taken good 
care not to have run my head into such a 
» red-hot oven ! Oh ! where have the exalted 
sentiments of nature fled to, that they now 
exist only in the breasts of these pretty 
minions of our pleasure ? 1 swear, Fernand, 
that this romantic girl will commit some 
rash act if you leave her all forlorn in her 
desperation. But do not annoy yourself 
too seriously about it : it is not for me to in- 
form an accomplished diplomatist like your- 
•seif that unnatural positions are never tena- 
ble ; calms follow storms in the immutable 
order of terrestrial things,' and Giuditta will 
soon perceive that it is ridiculous — nay, 
more — impossible to retain a lover in spite 
of himself.” 

So singular is the organization of the 
human heart, and so engrossing is its vanity, 
that Fernand was more flattered with the' 
disinterestedness, the tenacity of Giuditta’s 
love, than he was touched with remorse at 
hearing of the passionate grief she had 
shown to Lucchesini ; and he promised to 
.give up the following morning to her, as he 
was engaged for that evening at a ball given 
(by the French ambassador to the elite of 
Naples. 

AVhen Fernand entered the brilliantly 
lighted ball-room the first individual he 
saw was Lady Melrose, waltzing with the 
Viscount de Parab^re, and throwing into 
the voluptuous dance an indolent languish- 
ing grace that always mortally displeased 
her husband i her delicate light feet glided 
gracefully over the polished floor ; her slen- 


der, pliant frame hung like a bended reed 
upon the arm of her cavalier; her heaving 
bosom was faintly shadowed forth beneath 
the complaisant gauze that was supposed to 
cover it ; her half-closed azure eyes seemed 
scarcely to be conscious of the presence of 
the man to whom she clung ; and, as he 
whirled her round, her long fair tresses 
floated like an airy halo round her head. 

Fernand, who had not forgotten the 
morning scene in her ladyship’s boudoir, fol 
lowed her every swimming movement with 
an irritated, jaundiced eye ; in spite of all his 
efforts to preserve for her that crowm of 
purity which it had been his delight to place 
upon her temples, his strong faith in her 
was shaken, the demon of doubt and, jeal- 
ousy took possession of his heart, all the 
malevolent tales he had heard to her dis- 
paragement rushed upon his mind, and he 
gave full way to those suspicions which ac- 
company the loss of a fond, a long-cherished 
hope. 

As he gazed upon her with a hundred 
conflicting passions surging in his heart, an 
Italian lady, leaning upon the arm of her 
camliere semente^ passed by D’Arville with- 
out perceiving him, and after looking at the 
pretty dancer for a few minutes, turned to 
her companion and said, in a contemptuous 
tone: 

“ Look at that woman, Teodore, at that 
foreigner, who changes her lovers as she 
does her jewels. When she first appeared 
at Naples M. d’Arville was in the ascendant, 
and certainly he was preferable to the man 
she now distinguishes so forcibly.” 

This careless observation — certainly not 
intended for Fernand’s ears, for the speaker 
was not aware of his being near her — suf- 
ficed to complete the young man’s misery ; 
his brain burned, but his blood ran cold, 
and, in the agony of the moment, he could 
have passed a sword through the Viscount’s 
heart ; but the usages of society had taught 
him so to hide his sufterings under a smiling, 
bright exterior, that no indication of them 
appeared upon his face. 

If some enchanter’s magic wand could 
tear the mask of joyous laughing happiness 
from the face of every person present at a 
brilliant fete, what tortures, humiliations, 
abject feelings, hatred, regret, remorse, mis- 
ery, and despair, would be exposed to view ! 
Behold tliat beauteous woman, sparkling 
with jewels more glittering than all the 
fabled gems of Istakhar, whom all the 
women envy and all the men admire; an 
indifferent spectator would suppose that 
she was happy beyond the possibility of 
doubt, for she is lovely, young, and rich ; 
would he give credence to the appalling 
fact, that even now— gliding with surpass- 
ing elegance and winning smiles throughout 
the mazes of the dance, covered wdth dia- 
monds and choice exotic flowers, the object 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


83 


of adulation by the crowds who fall back in 
respectful admiration and obsequiously make 
way for her — slie is a prey to racking, 
never-ending grief; devoured by the most 
agonising jealousy, the happiness of the 
past has fled as a momentary dream, the 
sad realities of the present crush her to 
the earth, and her only hope for the future 
is the advent of a speedy death. The luxu- 
rious saloons, resplendent with a dazzling 
light that mimics day, and filled with well- 
dressed crowds, are dark and desolate to 
her view ; and yet, unhappy woman ! she 
smiles and bows, for she knows that a hun- 
dred malignant, piercing, envious eyes are 
upon her, and her pride spurns the idea 
that the malevolence or curiosity of the 
public should witness one quivering throb 
of that deep-seated grief “that passeth 
show,” 

Observe that handsome, elegant young 
man, habited in the first style of fashion, 
but without the least .pretension, talking of 
shooting, hunting, racing, driving, to the 
friends who press around him, who look 
upon him as an oracle and treasure up his 
his words; he appears calm and uncon- 
cerned ; pleasure in its most seductive forms 
waits upon his steps ; without doubt he is 
happv. The curtain rises ! He is ruined, 
dishonored, and certain to be publicly dis- 
graced if he should live till morning; he 
would be present at one other ball, and at 
its termination he Avill retire to his room, 
and put a violent end to a life ot folly that 
has led him to the commission of a fatal 
crime ! 

Look at that sumptuously attired woman, 
who is no longer young, but talks with so 
much animation ; her glad smile and ready 
laugh must surely spring from a contented 
spirit! Alas! that poor woman “has been 
beautiful !” What mysterious tortures, what 
unspeakable bitterness, are to be found in 
those three little words ! To the woman 
who will not grow old, who knows not bow 
to grow old with dignity, and whose life 
has been made up of idle frivolities, the loss 
of youth is an undying torment, the more 
poignant that she cannot give her sorrow 
vent, that no one feels for her ; but, on the 
contrary, this fell struggle between advanc- 
ing age and the rcivages of time provokes 
only contemptuous and derisive sneers from 
the spectators of the fight. ^ misera- 
ble woman, weep thy waning beauty ! But 
no, do not weep! for those tears which 
usually relieve the o’er-traught heart will 
but trace another wrinkle on thy face! 

The world will look with commiseration 
upon the time-honored ruins of a mighty 
building, on the deposed lieir of a long line 
of kings ; but no one pities the fallen majes- 
ty of the woman who “ has been beautitul:” 
and yet she has lost a kingdom, the sceptre 
has glided from her hand, the imperial dia- 


dem of grace, and youth, and love has fallen 
from her brow ! Whilst she reigned su- 
preme, a word, a sigh, a glance, sufficed to 
raise a worshipper to the seventh heaven 
of bliss or plunge him in despair ; she had 
but to state her will, and the word “ impos- 
sible” disappeared before it. Ah ! those were 
days of ecstasy, but too often followed with 
tears, regrets, and the most poignant re- 
morse. 

When the dance was over, Valerie found 
herself standing by Fernand, and feeling 
that she had lost ground in the morning, 
which it was imperative upon her to regain, 
she turned to him and inquired, in the ten- 
derest tone, the reason of his melancholy. 

“For the sake of mercy, madam,” Fer- 
nand sharply replied, “ let this fooling have 
an end. My sufferings — happily now gone 
forever — never reached your heart; and I 
think you must have amused yourself to 
satiety by playing upon the feelings of a 
man who has been stupid enough, twice in 
his life, to believe himself beloved in return 
for an aftection as deep and humble as it 
was exclusive and sincere.” 

Having spoken these angry words, which 
almost choked him in the utterance, he did 
not wait for a reply, but walked briskly on 
to a terrace which commanded the whole of 
the magnificent Bay of Naples. The heavy 
atmosphere and a bank of dark clouds in 
the west announced the certain coming of a 
fearful storm, but at that moment and upon 
that terrace nature seemed hushed in sleep; 
the heavens appeared one vast expanse of 
sapphire, the glittering stars and the silver 
moon mirrored themselves in the motionless 
bosom of the mighty deep, the soft perfume 
of the acacias and the orange groves were 
wafted to Fernand’s burning brow, and the 
profound cairn gradually stilled the storm 
that raged within him. 

In the presence of the Eternal, in the 
midst of His glorious works, in the sweet 
repose of nature, man smiles at the folly of 
his passions, and feels the extent of his in- 
gratitude to Providence, who has placed so 
much pure happiness within his reach, which 
his madness has cast from him as a thing of 
naught. 

Leaning upon the balustrade, D’Arville 
fell insensibly into a soft reverie. He dreamt 
of his infant days, when, clinging to the 
knees of his mother, she spoke to him of 
that unknown world, from which perhaps 
she then looked down upon him ; he thought 
of her tender admonitions, of her last fare- 
well, of his sister Inez, of the soft, sincere 
affection of Bettine ; all these souvenirs 
crowded upon his mind, and the tears came 
unbidden to his eyes. His meditations soon 
passed from his old familiar domestic ties, 
and were beginning to assume that mystic 
poetical character which usually clothed 
them, when a female hand, placed lightly 


84 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


on his shoulder, recalled him to the realities 
of life. 

D’Arville trembled from head to foot 
with an inexplicable emotion, for, without 
looking up to see who the intruder was, his 
heart told him it could be none other than 
Valerie. And yet, could that be possible? 
Could Lady Melrose, the deity of that ball, 
have quitted the saloons to follow him, and 
braved the censures, the malignant supposi- 
tions of her friends, if it should be discov- 
ered that she had passed one moment in 
solitude with him ? His eyes ceased to take 
in the inanimate objects by which he was 
surrounded, his ears heard not the melodi- 
ous strains that were wafted from the ball- 
room, the delirium of his joy deprived him 
of the power of speech, and his whole soul 
beamed in the long ardent look he fixed on 
Valerie. 

The moon looked mildly down upon 
them ; the soft calm of the night was only 
broken by the distant music, the tuneful 
descants of the mournful nightingale, tlie 
measured dip of the oars of some small 
boat that traced its phosphoretic track 
across the waters of the bay ; the atmos- 
phere laden with perfumes, and the veil of 
mystery with which night covers nature, 
inflamed the imagination of the poet, whilst 
Valerie stood silently by him, with her blue 
orbs bent upon the ground, as if she feared 
too much the fire that glowed in his. 

Her situation was becoming dangerous. 
Fernand had taken her hand, which gently 
returned the pressure of his own ; she was 
so close to him that her tresses fell upon 
his face, and as he pressed her to his heart 
he could count the agitated pulsations of 
her own. In fact, Valerie was more vehe- 
mently excited than she thought she ever 
could have been ; perhaps she had trusted 
too much to the strength of her own mor- 
ality; perhaps the fear of losing Fernand 
forever had given an unlooked-for passion- 
ate interest to this mute reconciliation; 
perhaps — aye, yes ! there are moments 
when the coquette, clad in her coldness as 
in complete steel, will throw oflP her coat of 
proof and become a woman ! 

Whatever the precise feelings of Lady 
Melrose might at that moment be, they 
caused the tears to sparkle in her long-lash- 
ed eyes, and then, taking a rose-bud from 
her bosom, she smiled, and offered it to 
Fernand. 

What speaks more potently to the heart 
than a modest simple flower ? How many 

ensive thoughts rise at the sight of it, — 

ow many words are indelibly imprinted on 
its silent leaves ! And even when the lovely 
flower is faded — like the hopes that it evok- 
ed — we cannot look upon it without emo- 
tion; we preserve it with religious grati- 


tude for the happiness it has supplied, and 
when the image of the once-loved one is al- 
most effaced, we cannot destroy the pledge 
of sweetly-memoried, long-lost joys. 

Fernand passed his arm around the 
zephyr like waist of Lady Melrose, who of- 
fered no resistance ; he strained her to his 
breast as he murmured those words of love 
that madden and betray, — the hour of his 
crowning happiness drew nigh, — the statue 
was becoming animated with a portion of 
its own fire, — the ice-cold heart was throw- 
ing off its deadly torpor, — and Valerie whis- 
pered, in accents so low that no other ears 
but those of love could possibly have caught 
the sounds : 

“ Fernand ! my dear, my own Fernand I 
I love thee !” 

At that deep and burning moment — when 
the fond confession set Fernand’s blood 
coursing like lightning through his veins, 
when the sky was overcast, and sombre 
clouds veiled alike the moon’s silvery disk 
and the d^ep blushes of the erring wife — 
advancing steps were heard, and, before the 
guilty couple had time to loose each other’s 
hand and resume their nonchalance, Au- 
gustus de Parab^re was by their side. 

“It grieves me much, cousin,” he said, 
with assumed compunction, “ to arrive so 
awkwardly, and to interrupt such a poet- 
ical, interesting, romantic Ute-^-Ute^ but 1 
merely obey the orders of my superior offi- 
cer. For the life of me I cannot guess 
what has taken place, but the Duchess is 
below, in a hired carriage, and bade me say 
she expects your company and that of M. 
d’Arville immediately.” • 

This announcement, at such a moment, 
created the greatest possible surprise. Va- 
lerie grew pale, for she had an instinctive 
dread of her fierce grandmother ; she knew 
her long-cherished hatred of Fernand, and 
she felt certain that her cousin would com- 
municate this mysterious, suspicious inter- 
view to the old lady. These thoughts in- 
stantly dispelled every idea of tenderness, 
any remains of emotion she had felt, and as 
her characteristic selfishness returned, she 
walked away from D’Arville, whom she 
now fervently wished had been at*the bot- 
tom of the bay. D’Arville offered her his 
arm, but she coldly declined it, and taking 
that of the Viscount, who was preparing to 
return to the saloon, she proceeded down 
the stairs, fellowed mechanically by Fer- 
nand. 

When they reached the carriage in which 
the Duchess was seated, almost concealed 
in furs and shawls, as if it were the depth 
of winter, they mounted, at an imperious 
gesture from the old lady, and the carriage 
was driven rapidly away. 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


85 


- CHAPTER XXXIL 

One of those terrific storms which occur 
so frequently in the south hurst suddenly 
forth, and attended the Duchess and her 
companions on their way, at the same time 
that it welcomed G-iuditta on her arrival at 
the Earl’s retreat ; the rain fell in torrents, 
the vivid lightning made the whole face of 
the country visible at intervals, the winds 
howled, the thunder rolled, and no one 
could have believed that only a few mo- 
ments previous all had been serene. 

The rapid change, the sudden animation 
that had taken place in the elements acted 
in an inverse ratio upon Valerie. Fernand 
sought in vain, by the light of occasional 
flashes, to read in her marble countenance 
some traces of that tender emotion which 
had agitated her in their Ute-a-Ute upon 
the terrace, where, for some fleeting mo- 
ments, nature would have its way. In all 
the ascerbity of his disappointment he de- 
voted the meddling dowager — who was for- 
ever coming between him and his love — to 
those infernal powers which now seemed 
unchained ; and furious and disgusted at the 
vexatious interruption of the Viscount de 
Parab^re, he had not given a thought to 
his singular abduction by his unceasing per- 
secutrix from a brilliant reunion^ and that 
in the company of a woman from whom the 
dowager was always striving to detach him. 
Certainly the anomalous circumstance re- 
quired an explanation, and which we shall 
forthwith proceed to give. 

The Duchess de Marignan had ascertained, 
through Beppo, that since Fernand had been 
in Naples he had had a mistress, named 
Giuditta Castelli, celebrated for her beauty; 
and she had also been informed, through 
the same source, that Lord Melrose, who 
assumed to be a paragon of virtue, and had 
constituted himself the vigilant guardian of 
the Countess’s morality, was endeavoring to 
form an alliance with this Giuditta, and was 
to meet her that evening at a house outside 
the city, which he had fitted up in the most 
luxurious manner for the prosecution of his 
amours. 

This twofold discovery — which placed the 
Earl at the mercy of herself and her grand- 
daughter, and displayed the falsity of Fer- 
nand’s protestations of devotion to Valerie 
—she esteemed well worth the few hundreds 
of ducats Beppo had exacted as the price of 
his information. But the dowager was too 
skilful a strategist to unmask all her bat- 
teries at once, and she therefore merely told 
her grand-daughter, on her entering the 
carriage, that she was about to render her 
an immediate important service, which 
would assure her independence for the 
future, but she did not deign to address a 
single word of explanation to Fernand. 

As for the dejected lover, cast headlong 


from the summit of his joy, he wearied his 
imagination in guessing the part he was ex- 
pected to perform in the approaching melo- 
drama ; and, without being over punctilious 
in matters of etiquette, he thought he might 
have been consulted before he was com- 
pelled to appear upon the scene. As he 
entertained some slight suspicion, from the 
Earl’s absence from the ball, that his lord- 
ship was concerned in some way or other 
with this midnight journey, he was equally 
prepared peacefully to verify the flagrant 
delict in which he expected the husband 
would be discovered, or to sacrifice him on 
the spot, according to the request that might 
be made to him, but he could not patiently 
endure the perfectly dumb character the 
Duchess had assigned him. When they had 
ridden some distance he could not bear to 
remain silent any longer, and turning to- 
wards the Dowager-Duchess, said, with the 
utmost fascination he could throw into his 
tone : 

“ I am truly grateful to you, madam, for 
having deigned to select me as your cham- 
pion on an occasion which, from the un- 
timely hour you are abroad, cannot fail to 
be one of peculiar importance, and I sin- 
cerely hope that neither your grace nor 
Lady Melrose incur the slightest risk in this 
midnight expedition; but, if there should 
be any real danger, I trust both will believe 
me when I say I shall be too happy to 
prove my zeal and devotion to your ser- 
vice.” 

Happily for Fernand the darkness con- 
cealed the sardonic smile that passed across 
the old lady’s face as she replied, with 
studied courtesy : 

“ You are a thousand times too good, sir, 
to thank me for that proof of confidence 
which your long and faithful attachment 
to my dear grand-daughter so richly merits : 
your presence is necessary, — nay, it is indis- 
pensable to us, for without you the denoue- 
ment of this very interesting comedy would 
be incomplete.” 

As Fernand did not possess the key to 
solve this mystery, he shrugged his shoul- 
ders involuntarily, and resumed his silence ; 
but Valerie, well-knowing the falseness of 
her grandmother’s exquisite politeness, sus- 
pected she had some singular object to ob- 
tain, and awaited the termination of the 
journey with the greatest curiosity. This 
was speedily accomplished, and whilst each 
of the trio remained wrapped in their 
peculiar conjectures, the carriage stopped 
before the gates of the lone house whither 
Beppo had cajoled his victim. Guided by 
the Duchess, who evidently had made her- 
self acquainted with the minutest details of 
the mansion, Fernand and Valerie mounted 
the stairs without uttering a word, crept 
along the dark corridor and ante-chamber, 
and then suddenly arrived — as we have 


86 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


seen — in the presence of Giuditta and Lord 
Melrose. 

The Duchess remained for some minutes 
in the back-ground, rubbing her hands to- 
gether, and enjoying her victory with all 
the malevolence of her nature ; but Valerie, 
whose mind rapidly embraced the whole 
details of this self-criminating scene, darted 
towards the guilty parties, and in her fury, 
so suddenly aroused, forgot the duty due 
to herself and sex. Her eyes flashed Are, 
her delicate features became hideous and 
distorted, and her frail form trembled in 
every limb ; she overwhelmed Lord Melrose 
with reproaches for his infidelity — forget- 
ting the avowal of her love to Fernand, 
made on the terrace not an hour before ; 
she railed and stormed with a volubility 
and earnestness that would have done honor 
to a fishwife of Portici, and would have 
lacerated Giuditta with her nails if she had 
not been restrained by force. 

Fernand’s love for the fair vixen might 
have been materially decreased by this 
scandalous behavior, if he had not felt an 
absorbing personal interest in the scene that 
blinded him to all but Giuditta. He could 
not conceive the possibility of her being 
there : she who only a few hours previously 
had been plunged in such absorbing grief, 
had manifested such despair, that even the 
hardened Lucchesini had been touched with 
some compassion ; he was astounded to 
find that this inconsolate Ariadne, this for- 
saken injured nymph, for whom Luigi had 
pleaded, should be the reigning divinity of 
that infamous retreat. 

Giuditta instantly recognised Valerie as 
the lady she had seen in the English car- 
riage on the Strada-Nuova, and afterwards 
walking in company with D’Arville on the 
Villa-Reale ; but as she gazed upon her she 
saw not the outraged wife, justly offended 
at her husband’s infidelity, but merely the 
woman whom Fernand adored, the rival 
who had destroyed her peace and ruined 
her happiness forever. The indignation, 
the hatred, that gleamed in Valerie’s light 
eyes was reflected more majestically in the 
dark orbs of the beautiful Italian ; In fact, 
Lady Melrose was at that moment more 
jealous of Giuditta’s physical advantages 
than irritated by her being in intimate com- 
munion with her husband, whilst the de- 
ceived girl’s anger was more noble, because 
it sprung from a purer source, from a deep 
love, in which one single debasing feeling, 
one speck of vanity, could not be found. 

Thus it was that the humble Castelli 
towered above her aristocratic rival through- 
out that trying scene by the superiority of 
her imposing beauty, her singleness of heart, 
her self-command, her mute disdain. Com- 
pared to her concentrated but restrained 
indignation the futile fury of Valerie seemed 
that of a froward fractious child ; the mark- 


ed contrast between these opposite naturCvS 

both physically and morally — was not to 

the advantage of the haughty lady, and, as 
she felt it, despite her vanity, her rage in- 
creased. 

But she had a still more bitter humilia- 
tion to undergo, for she had yet to learn 
the relation that had existed for upwards 
of a year between the girl who braved her 
ire undismayed and the man whom sho 
had so long regarded as her abject slave. 
At first Fernand stood silent, uncertain 
what to do ; but when he beheld Valerie’s 
threatening attitude, when he heard the 
furious insults that issued from her lips, ho 
feared that Giuditta would not succeed in 
repressing the natural violence of her south- 
ern blood, and he threw himself between 
the two enraged women in order to pre- 
vent the perpetration of some fatal deed. 

When Giuditta beheld him she felt as if 
she had been struck by the electric fluid,— 
she saw at once that the sole circumstance 
of her being there would destroy her in her 
lover’s eyes ; however, she did not hesitate 
one moment in openly proclaiming her in- 
nocence. She motioned Valerie from be- 
fore her with an imperious gesture, and, to 
the latter’s ungovernable surprise, threw 
herself upon her knees at Fernand’s feet. 

“My dear, my only friend!” she said, in 
a voice broken by hysteric sobs ; “ do not 
condemn me, for I swear I am not guilty. 

I have been lured here by false pretences, 
and am the victim of a villanous conspi- 
racy. This man— who has dared to speak . 
of love to me, and whom I knew only as 
your friend — has been nothing, is nothing, 
and never can be anything to me ! I swear 
it, upon this holy relic, given to me by my 
dying mother ! upon my soul 1 by thee — my 
supreme blessing 1 by thee, whom I love, 
whom I worship with a sincere devotion 
thou wilt not appreciate until this poor 
heart shall have ceased to beat 1” 

The unhappy girl seized Fernand’s hand, 
and would have bathed it with her tears, 
but he repulsed her rudely, and pointed to 
the sparkling diamond clasp Lord Melrose 
had festened on her bosom. Bending, be- 
neath this silent damning evidence of her 
culpability, she turned towards the Earl, 
and energetically implored him to bear wit- 
ness to her innocence ; but he, writhing un- 
der the Duchess’s contemptuous, sarcastic 
glances and Valerie’s invectives, was not 
inclined to sacrifice himself merely to jus- 
tify his victim. He made the strongest ef- 
forts to preserve his British coolness — that 
sang-froid ridiculed so unmercifully by our 
more mercurial neighbors, but which is one 
of the chief ingredients that contribute to 
the high position England enjoys amongst 
the nations of the earth — but his rage at 
being discovered in such a situation was 
too overwhelming to be contained, and soon 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


87 


exploded. He stalked towards Fernand, 
who had freed himself with some difficulty 
from Giuditta’s passionate embrace, and 
said, with dignity, drawing himself up to 
bis full height : 

“ Monsieur d’Arville, when you shall 
have told me by what happy chance I have 
the honor of seeing you in a house which 
belongs to me, and where you were not ex- 
pected, I have an important communication 
to make to you.” 

“My lord!” the dowager interposed, ad- 
vancing, and making a profound obeisance, 
“ I must take upon myself the responsi- 
bility of replying for M. d’Arville, who cer- 
tainly cannot answer for himself, for he was 
not aware where he was going, and, there- 
fore, could not have the slightest intention 
of interfering with the consolations of your 
lordship’s leisure moments. Lady Melrose 
having been informed that her husband was 
here, in privacy, with some wretched aban- 
doned woman, solicited the support of the 
first gentleman she saw, and I presumed to 
intrude upon your lordship by giving her 
my countenance, and to preserve appear- 
ances. And now, my lord, having set my 
young friend right in your estimation, you 
can make any communication to him you 
may think fit.” 

The Earl bowed to the dowager, and turn- 
ing to D’Arville continued thus : 

“ Sir, I acknowledge that I have abused 
your hospitality, and the friendly feeling 
that existed between us, by my endeavoring 
to take your mistress from you. If I have 
not succeeded, the attempt cannot be less 
dishonorable in your eyes, and I am ready 
to give you that satisfaction which no doubt 
you will demand.” 

“My lord!” Fernand coolly replied, “I 
trust you know me well enough to feel as- 
sured that I would not shrink from any per- 
sonal encounter, if it were imperatively ne- 
cessary ; but I am not a fire-eater, and I do 
not fight for trifles. I am wearied of this 
girl, and I yield her freely to you. As for 
Uie treachery of which you accuse yourself 
so frankly, we are perfectly even upon that 
score, for I have the honor to inform you 
that for the last six months I have paid my 
most humble, but assiduous, devoted court 
to Lady Melrose.” 

The Earl turned pale, and bit his lips. 

“ Sir !” he answered, “ those words re- 
quire to be effaced by blood. I am, like 
yourself, no bully, but I do not suffer my- 
iself to be insulted with impunity. It is I 
who am wronged now, and if you are not a 
paltry coward ” 

“ Stop, my lord !” Fernand cried, gulping 
down his anger at the injurious epithet; 
“ there are ladies present, and this hot-bed 
of debauchery is not a fitting place for a 
discussion upon honorable punctilio. The 
lady who lias the misfortune to bear your 


name is without stain, without reproach. I 
cannot deny that, until a few hours ago, the 
Signorina Castelli was under my protection, 
but the day that had seen me honored and 
blessed with Lady Melrose’s preference 
would have dissolved the vile connection.” 

This unfeeling, base affront, thrown into 
Giuditta’s teeth, fell like healing balm upon 
her rival’s heart, and an almost imper- 
ceptible smile from Valerie — ominous to the 
Earl’s future domestic happiness — rewarded 
P’Arville for its utterance. The Earl, think- 
ing, after the defiance he had exchanged 
with Fernand, that the strict rules of the 
code of honor would not permit him to re- 
main in the same apartment with his antag- 
onist, withdrew into an adjoining room, 
where he was heard; immediately afterwards, 
walking up and down with his accustomed 
calmness. 

As for the miserable Giuditta, the con- 
tempt of her cruel, faithless lover, evinced 
in his last speech, completely crushed her ; 
she looked at him for a few moments, mute 
and motionless, and then fell senseless on 
the floor. On seeing her livid and inani- 
mate at his feet, on beholding that majestic 
countenance clouded by the shades of death, 
D’Arville’s stony heart softened towards 
her. For the whole eighteen months that 
he had known her not one word of untruth 
had ever issued from her lips, then why 
should he disbelieve her now, although ap- 
pearances were so much against her ? Might 
she not be, as she had said, the victim of an 
infamous conspiracy ; and even if guilty, 
was he justified in abandoning her so re- 
morselessly, whilst she was dying in despair ? 

He had made one step towards the mis- 
erable girl, he was about to kneel, and had 
extended his hand towards her, and the 
words of compassion were upon his lips, 
when one look from Valerie checked their 
utterance, and brought him again upon his 
feet. That glance of mingled hatred, for- 
giveness, and command, froze his good 
intentions into marble, and roused the vol- 
cano of his headlong passion ; at that mo- 
ment Fernand understood his triple sense, 
and he dastardly sacrificed its better feel- 
ings to his despicable hopes. 

“ Oh, Valerie!” he whispered in her ear, 
“ you compel me to commit a cruel act in 
leaving this poor creature, who has no ref- 
uge in this world. If she is not guilty, 
Heaven will some day hold me answerable 
for that pure soul she has given to me!” 

“It is, then, true!” Valerie answered 
scornfully, as the words hissed through her 
clenched teeth ; “ you love this girl, perjur- 
ed villain, and you have deceived me !” 

“Oh! no, Vaforie! light of my soul! I 
have not deceived thee ; but this poor girl 
indulged for me all the deep, devoted love 
with which you have inspired my breast. 
All that 1 have suffered of jealousy and de- 


88 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


Bpair through you, she has felt for me ; her 
tender, loving heart reflected all my suflfer- 
ings, and it is because I adore you, because 
I know I experience the pangs of unrequited 
love, that I feel the greatest commiseration 
for the unhappy girl.” 

For the second time that evening Valerie 
felt herself humiliated ; for a second time 
she was jealous of the woman who lay, ap- 
parently dead, before her. But her vanity 
soon regained the ascendancy, and she said, 
with a supercilious sneer : 

“Let us leave this frightful house, Fer- 
nand, where assuredly that wretched woman 
would not have been found unless she had 
been guilty. Lord Melrose will take care 
of her, no doubt. Besides” — this was added 
with the deepest malignity — “ she is young, 
some people may even think her handsome, 
BO she will not want for consolation.” 

These heartless words failed of their an- 
ticipated effect. Fernand shuddered at his 
mistress’s implacable revenge, but his vani- 
ty soon persuaded him that it arose from 
jealousy of his lovo, and he yielded uncon- 
ditionally to the arbitress of his fate. 

From the moment that Lord Melrose left 
the room, the Duchess felt herself irresisti- 
bly attracted towards Giuditta Castelli, 
whose features, voice, and figure, awakened 
a thousand ideas in her mind, that she 
tried to chase away as imaginary, but which 
would not be repelled. Beppo had excited 
some fearful suspicions in the last interview 
she had held with him, which were more 
and more strengthened every instant she 
contemplated the forsaken girl, until she 
became convinced that she possessed the 
thread of a mysterious labyrinth, which she 
had labored to unravel for a long series of 
years without success. Once upon the 
track the Duchess de Marignan was not to 
be discouraged by the interposition of any 
obstacles, of what magnitude soever they 
might be. 

The brigand had described to her the 
medallion Giuditta had received from her 
dying mother, and always wore upon her 
breast ; this ornament she had vehemently 
desired to examine, and had requested 
Beppo to procure it for her, which he in- 
fallibly would have done, if Giuditta’s sud- 
den waking had not disturbed him at the 
moment he was endeavoring to take it from 
her neck. 

Nothing could be more natural than that 
Inherent female sympathy should lead one 
woman, however high in rank, to assist an- 
other, however humble, in her hour of dis- 
tress ; so the stony-hearted Duchess ap- 
proached the senseless Giuditta with an ex- 
clamation of compassion, knelt down by 
her side, uncovered her bosom, under the 
pretext of giving the poor girl some air, 
and discovered the medallion on her breast. 
Cold drops of sweat stood upon the old wo- 


man’s forehead, as she extended her trem- 
bling hand to grasp it ; she dared not look 
at it for fear her dreaded suspicion should 
be realized ; but the weakness was only mo- 
mentary, and shaking it oflF, her bright 
piercing eyes were rivetted upon the minia- 
ture resemblance of a child, whose lovely 
countenance seemed to smile upon her hag- 
gard restless features. One glance, and she 
was satisfied; the scornful expression of 
gratified malevolence and of triumph passed 
across her face ; a deep sigh relieved the 
conflicting feelings that had struggled in her 
breast, and she quietly replaced the minia^ 
ture in its accustomed spot. 

“ Let us be gone, my more than mother,” 
said Valerie; “and oblige me by making 
the circumstance known to Lord Melrose, 
who appears to have forgotten there is such 
a person as his wife upon the earth.” 

“ I am at your service, dearest,” the 
Duchess answered, in a tone still trembling 
from her recent agitation ; “ M. d’Arville 
will give you his arm until we reach the 
carriage, and” — she raised her voice so that 
it might be heard in the adjoining room — 
“ I think the Earl will not refuse me his.” 

Valerie and Fernand left the room to- 
gether, and Lord Melrose, entering immedi- 
ately, approached the dowager, who receiv- 
ed him with a gracious, mocking smile, but 
drew back in affright on seeing the express- 
ion of concentrated fury depicted on hia 
face, his livid lips, and gleaming eyes. She 
shuddered as he placed himself before her, 
crossing his arms, and pressing them con- 
vulsively upon his chest, as if he would 
forcibly restrain the hatred of her that 
bounded in his heart; and, as she turned, 
and was hurrying after her grand-child and 
Fernand, he said : 

“Fear nothing, madam, I would not pol- 
lute my fingers by bringing them in contact 
with your person. I despise you too much 
to destroy you — worthy, honorable instruc- 
tress of a woman who aspires only to walk 
in the same path of falsehood and treachery 
as yourself! — a miserable creature, grown 
old in the practice of every species of infa- 
my, and now instead of boldly accusing, 
stoops to the degradation of a spy 1” 

A physiogomist would have delighted in 
the study of Madame de Marignan’s coun- 
tenance during this furious withering tirade. 
It passed through every gradation of color, 
from crimson to a pale cadaverous hue ; the 
dilatation of her nostrils, her hard breath- 
ing, the churning of her teeth, and the foam- 
flakes on her lips, showed the terrible nature 
of the storm that raged within, and her 
large gray eyes glared like those of a pan- 
ther ready to spring upon its prey. Every 
wrinkle on her brow seemed to become 
more deeply furrowed, and, as she stood for 
a few seconds in silent fury, it was evident 
that she was racking her fertile brain for 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


89 


the most deadly weapon with which to slay 
the insolent man who had presumed to 
brave her thus. Suddenly her countenance 
resumed all its serenity, the swelling mus- 
cles of her frame relaxed, she curtseyed al- 
most reverentially to the Earl, and then 
said, with the utmost calmness : 

“My lord, believe me I am profoundly 
grateful for all those elegant compliments 
you have just paid me, and which were pro- 
nounced with a gallantry looked for in vain 
by us of the old school in the cavaliers of 
modern days ! I had the weakness to sup- 
pose that gray hairs would at least guaran- 
tee an unprotected female from brutal in- 
sult ; but that, it appears, is an antiquated 
prejudice, which has been excluded from 
polite society in your native land. You 
think that I have played the spy upon you, 
and came here merely to gratify my enmity 
in denouncing you to your wife. It is not 
BO ! for know, degraded gentleman, base peer, 
that did I wish to harm you, — aye ! were it 
worth while utterly to destroy and crush 
you, — I have but to speak two words to 
M. d’Arville to insure your certain death. 

Those two words are Pray, would your 

lordship like to hear them ?” 

The Earl started, lifted up his hands, and 
waved the Duchess back, as if she were a 
spectre that appalled his sight. 

“ What 1 your lordship will not hear 
them I” she added, with a fiendish grin : 
“ Ah ! ha ! my good lord, it is your turn 
now to quake with fear !” 

“ Madam, if I tremble, it is not through 
fear of mortal man, but from remorse ; you 
have evoked feelings of the deepest shame 
and misery, that I had flattered myself were 
cold and extinct in my heart. Some day it 
will be my fate, for I believe in retributive 
justice, to expiate with my blood a crime 

committed in the hey-day of my youth 

Madam! 1 shall not tremble then I” 

The astute dowager pretended to be much 
moved with the Earl’s avowal of his error, 
and he thought he was pardoned for the op- 
probrious epithets he had heaped upon her, 
but he was mistaken, for the Duchess’s im- 
placable nature was totally ignorant of the 
blessed word “forgive.” An injury sown 
iu her venomously fertile heart was certain 
— sooner or later — to produce an ample 
harvest of revenge ; but the moment was 
not yet arrived, and, with a Judas’ smile, 
she offered her hand to the Earl, who took 
it with every demonstration of respect. 

“ We have both unfortunately yielded to 
momentary irritation,” she said blandly; “let 
us forget it, my lord, and never mention the 
unpleasant subject again. And now, if I may 
presume to offer my advice, you would ring 
for your female superintendent, and give this 
poor girl into her charge until to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow,” the Earl replied, “ I shall 
be on the road to England — and alone.” 


“ So much the better, my lord ; by so 
doing you show your good sense and knowl- 
edge of the world : and when you return, 
believe me this storm which now clouds 
your domestic happiness will have blown 
over. As for this unhappy woman, a sura 
of money will recompense her for any loss 
she may have sustained through the impet- 
uosity of our poor Valerie, who is a good 
creature, and really loves you from the bot- 
tom of her heart. Yes, yes, all will be well 
by-and-by.” 

The Earl was completely duped by the 
duplicity of this artful woman, and hastened 
to carry her suggestions into execution. He 
confided the still insensible Italian to an old 
woman, whom he paid and discharged the 
following day ; he left a cheque upon his 
banker for a large sum addressed to Giu^ 
ditta Oastelli ; and, having made all his ar- 
rangements, offered his arm to the Duchess, 
and escorted her to the carriage in which 
Lady Melrose was awaiting her. The hus- 
band and the lover then exchanged punc- 
tiliously ceremonious bows, separated, and 
regained their respective homes on foot. 


CHAPTER XXXIH. 

The hag to whom the Earl intrusted Giu- 
ditta was one of those horrible beings who 
degrade the name of “ woman,” and who 
prosecute a horrid traffic a thousand times 
more frightful, more attrocious, than that 
of the slave trade on the eastern coast of 
Africa. 

May shame, contempt, and ignominy ever 
light on those foul wretches, who, for the 
sake of filthy lucre, ensnare young females, 
and treacherously lead them into the abyss 
of vice, and may the brand of undying in- 
famy stamp those men who avail themselves 
of their abominable aid 1 The law may be 
inefficient to reach her who sells, and him 
who purchases the charms of unsuspecting 
innocence; but, on the great day, what an- 
swer will they make to the Mighty Voice 
which shall ask of them : “ Cain 1 where is 
thy brother ?” 

The Earl’s convenient, shameless house- 
keeper — from an extended experience in 
such matters — set down Giuditta at once as 
one of those whining sentimental fools 
whom she detested. She valued purity and 
innocence because they obtained good prices 
in the markets, but she could not conceive 
the utility of the slightest scruple in a wo- 
man who was already lost. With the curi- 
osity natural to her class, the duenna had 
listened at the door of the apartment, and 
heard Giuditta’s contem[)tuous rejection of 
Lord Melrose’s brilliant oflers, and tlie 


»0 


CLOUi:)EI) HAPPINESS. 


avowal of her passion for Fernand ; and, as 
she was a Neapolitan by birth, and was per- 
fectly acquainted with the girl’s former 
course of life, and the evil reputation of her 
Ifimily, she was astonished at her ridiculous 
folly in casting fortune from her.” 

The dismissal she had received from the 
Earl, of which Giuditta was the proximate, 
although involuntary cause, aroused her 
anger against the girl, whom she over- 
whelmed with re])roaches, and refused even 
the common services of humanity. But all 
her objurgations fell Ujxni a dull, cold ear, 
as the w’^ater falls upon a rock. Absorbed 
in her despair, Giuditta did not comprehend 
one word the woman uttered ; her only de- 
sire, when she regained her senses, was to 
leave that fatal house, wdierein the last hope 
of retaining Fernand’s love had vanished. 
As for the letter Lord Meh'ose had left, con- 
taining the cheque upon his banker, the 
price of her ruined happiness, she regarded 
it as a crowning insult, and tore it into 
pieces, and trampled it beneath her feet, to 
the unconcealed amazement and disgust of 
the vile housekeeper, w'ho had made her- 
self acquainted with its contents whilst 
Giuditta was insensible. 

As soon as morning broke the unhappy 
Castelli — pale, haggard, and forlorn — quitted 
the house to wdiich tier villainous brother’s 
treachery had lured her, and found herself, 
as on the morning after her mother’s death, 
alone in the wide wmrld, without money, 
without a shelter, and without a friend. It 
was true she w^as no longer a ytumg girl of 
fifteen years of age, scarcely emerged from 
childhood, invoking death in the plenitude 
O/f her misery, but a w'oman who liad felt 
the sharp stings of adversity, and had 
learned^ by sad experience the lessons of 
patient resignation which the Supreme 
Being teaches those lost souls he deigns to 
chasten. 

On the first occasion, when Giuditta 
found herself alone, she asked for imme- 
diate death, but now she sought relief in 
prayer. The bright lines of the varied 
landscape that was spread out before her, 
refreshed by the heavy rain of the previous 
night, apd glowing in all the beauty of a 
vernal morn, the joyous chaunts of the 
feathered songsters, seemed to iiiock her 
melancholy with its soft azure sky and their 
happy, jocund lays; she strove to escape 
from the smiling, radiant face of nature, 
that contrasted so forcibly with the dark 
thoughts that pressed upon her soul, and, as 
she walked along, chance directed her foot- 
steps to a rural clmrch. 

She entered it, and passing down the 
silent nave, where several female peasants 
were worshipping before the images of their 
patron saints, droj)ped reverentially upon 
her knees before the altar of the Blessed 
\ irgin Mary, whom the Roman Church has 


styled : ‘‘ the Comfort of the Afflicted.” 
True religion was certainly a sealed book to 
her, for she had been brought up by Monna 
Peppina in the grossest ignorance of its 
revelations. She did not even understand 
the i'undamental principles of the Roman 
Catholic faith, but she had some vague im- 
pressions of the omnipotence and unbounded 
coinmiseration of the Lord of Heaven, and 
slie prayed long and earnestly for some 
merciful mitigation of her unutterable woe. 

It is not to be supposed that an instanta- 
neous, miraculous conversion was worked 
in Giuditta; with her impassioned heart 
still filled with the image of the beloved 
one, still bounding with the fervor of iii>- 
petuous love, it was impossible she could 
belong wholly to the Creator ; but, as she 
bent before “the Mother of Grief,” who 
seemed to look down compassionately upon 
her, her sufiferings became less acute. An 
expression of resignation spread gradually 
over her pale face, she felt the salutary, 
benignant influence of the holy spot, the 
peaceful majesty with which it repressed 
the violent outbursts of the heady passions 
of this earth ; and the tears, long pent-up 
in the excess of her misery, gushed from 
her eyes, and relieved her o’er-fraught 
bosom as they flowed. 

She implored pardon for her errors, she 
besought consolation in her wretchedness, 
and support in the trials she well knew she 
must undergo, and then she prayed, — Oh I 
how sincerely ! — for Fernand ! She re- 
collected what she was before she knew 
him ; she felt that, in spite of his desertion, 
she owed him a deep debt of gratitude ; she 
blessed the love that had destroyed her, 
the hand that now pressed so ruthlessly up- 
on her, for that hand had rescued her 
originally from the degradation of low 
vice, and that love, though now watered by 
her tears, had brought her to a knowledge 
of her God. 

The heart that has once deeply, sincerely 
loved— even when it has suffered irreparably 
from that love — preserves a sweet, eternal, 
imperishable remembrance of it; like to 
those aromatic herbs, which, trodden under 
foot, still continue to exhale their sweet 
perfume; so these poor souls, broken by 
injustice and neglect, cast their treasures of 
pardon and forgiveness round them. 

When Giuditta left the church her feel- 
ings were very different to those which 
filled her breast when first she entered it ; 
her devouring grief was considerably ap- 
peased ; she felt that Heaven would not 
suffer her to sink under the heavy burthen 
of her distress ; and she resolved, at all 
events, rather to die from want of food, 
than to break the faith her heart had plight- 
ed to Fernand. Her position was in the 
highest degree embarrassing ; she was not 
acquainted with one charitable kind-hearted 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


91 


female in all Naples, and she knew but too 
well the tender mercies of the other sex to 
induce her to apply to them. 

In tliis distressing situation she strolled 
about all day in the suburbs of the city, 
without knowing where she should lay her 
bead at night, or how she could procure a 
crust of bread to satisfy the hunger that 
began to press uj)on her. When tlie twi- 
light came she entei-ed Naples, and as the 
shops were gradually being closed, and the 
pedestrians becoming fewer in the streets, 
she gazed occasionally in some apparently 
benevolent countenance, and was about to 
enlist the Christian sympathy depicted in 
it, but the remains of her pride continually 
restrained her, and the words of solicitation 
died on her lips. 

And yet she was aware that some decided 
step must be taken, in order to procure her 
food and vshelter for the night. Slie wan- 
dered on for some time, and as despair 
began again to creep upon lier, and, well- 
• ingh fainting from want of sustenance, she 
thought of throwing lierself upon the earth, 
she perceived that she was at no great dis- 
tance from the locality where the poor 
W'oman resided, whose child she had nursed 
so tenderly at that happy period when Fer- 
nand gave her daily so many mute testimo- 
nials of the nascent flame she had inspired, 
and the miserable girl lifted up her eyes to 
Heaven in gratitude for the opportune 
relief. 

The woman, undoubtedly, was very poor; 
but it was probable she had a morsel she 
could spare, and it was certain she would 
share her bed with the houseless wanderer. 
Giuditta’s pride did not recoil at accepting 
a benefit from the hands of a humble wo- 
man, whom she had herself assisted in her 
hour of prosperity ; but a cruel disappoint- 
ment awaited her, for when she reached 
the house she found it occupied by a liarsh 
repulsive-looking woman, who informed her 
that the previous tenant had been dead 
some months, 

Giuditta staggered slightly from weakness 
as she withdrew from the door with a deep 
sigh ; exhaustion was coming rapidly upon 
her, she felt that her strength would not 
carry her any further, and she dropped 
npon a stone bench in front of a humble 
restaurant, in the interior of which, light- 
ed only by a single lamp, she saw a decently 
dressed old woman, serving plates of maoca- 
roui to several late customers. Giuditta 
could not make up her mind to enter and 
ask for charity whilst the shop was full, and 
when the last person had paid his money 
and departed, she listened to old “ Dame 
Susanna,” as she chatted with a chubby, 
rosy-cheeked boy, whilst she cleaned and 
put by her culinary utensils. 

“ We have had a capital day, Matteo,” 
she said ; “ and if our customers increase in 


this manner, we shall soon have a largo 
handsome room, with plenty of tables and 
lights in it, and — who knows, — perhaps some 
day a billiard-table ! I think you bring me 
good luck, my child ; for since you came to 
me, when you were left alone in the world 
after your poor mother’s death, things have 
gone on better and better every day.” 

“ God always blesses kind, generous 
hearts,” the boy replied, when he had given 
the old soul a smacking kiss upon her 
wrinkled cheeks ; “ mother used to tell me 
so every morning, and I have not forgotten 
it. What should I have been without you, 
granny ? Perhaps a poor boy, begging in 
the streets, like the one you gave the bread 
to yesterday, and I should have died of 
shame whenever I thought of poor dear 
mother!” 

“ Don’t think of that, Matteo,” Susanna 
cried, as she embraced the child; “but go 
and close the shutters, or some thieves may 
get in during the night. Folks do say that 
that wretch Beppo Castelli and some of his 
band were seen prowling about last night. 
Heaven send he may not come in here! 
But at ail events I will place the cross upon 
the little money I have in the world.” 

Matteo went out in accordance with the' 
shopkeeper’s request, but returned immedi- 
ately, stating there was a poor woman out- 
side, as pale as the stone bench she was re- 
clining on, and who said she had had no 
food all day, and if Susanna would allow 
him he would give her the maccaroni that 
had been put by for his supper. The good 
woman commended the child for his benev- 
olence, and having directed him to tell the 
poor famished creature to come in, he ran 
back, and half dragging her, placed her in a 
chair, close to the cooking-stove of the trat- 
toria. 

“ Heaven bless you, kind mother !” Giu- 
ditta almost gasped forth; “and you, too, 
good child !” 

A silence ensued, broken only by Giudit- 
ta’s sobs and some muttered observations 
from Susanna, wlio kept looking askance at 
her visitor as she prepared some maccaroni 
for her ; she thought she had seen Giuditta’s 
face before, although she could not tell ex- 
actly where. When the wanderer had eaten 
her humble repast, and had returned her 
grateful thanks to the kind heart that had 
given it to her she rose, and was about to 
leave the house, but Susanna prevented her, 
remarking that she was too young and 
handsome to trust herself in the streets at 
that late hour of the night, and she should 
willingly have a share of her bed if she 
would accept it, and Matteo would sleep 
upon tlie floor. 

The boy consented cheerfully to this ar- 
rangement, for he had taken an inexplicable 
fancy to Giuditta, whom he had examined 
most minutely whilst Dame Susanna busied 


92 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


lierself in making him up a bed, and on a 
sudden he remarked that the poor young 
woman was very like the good lady who 
was so kind to him when he was ill, and 
gave so much money to his mother, 

“We never knew her name,” said the hoy, 
“ but we prayed for her every day, and mo- 
ther told me never to forget her.” 

“ What an idea !” Susanna replied ; “ as if 
ladies ever begged their bread ! But you 
are a good child, Matteo, and. Heaven will 
bless you !” 

When the little arrangements were con- 
cluded, and the child had said his prayers, 
including the one his mother had taught 
him for their unknown benefactress, Giudit- 
ta laid her wearied limbs upon the bed, but 
waited long for the blessing of renovating 
sleep. Her heart, still alternating between 
hope and fear, indulged in that chimera that 
had flown forever from her ; her thoughts 
would cling to those visionary schemes 
which have been termed “ the refuge of the 
unhappy.” She dreamed that, by patience, 
perseverance, and devotion, she should some 
day win back Fernand’s love, and to accom- 
plish that sole end she was willing to endure 
all the sufierings, and make all the sacriflces 
fate might cast upon or demand from her. 
Poor girl ! she did not know that there are 
martyrs whose crown is only awarded to 
tliem in the skies ! 

Late the following morning, when Giu- 
ditta, worn out with fatigue and two nights 
watching, slept soundly, and Susanna was 
engaged preparing maccaroni in different 
ways to suit the various tastes of her cus- 
tomers, Matteo crept silently into the hum- 
ble bed-chamber, and, having minutely 
examined Giuditta, ran to his old protectress 
in great excitement, and told her he knew 
her guest was the pretty lady who had saved 
his life ; he was sure of it from the miniature 
of the child hung round her neck, which he 
had looked at so often and admired so much. 
Nor had Susanna forgotten the handsome 
girl, who had been the means of setting her 
up in business, through the two gold pieces 
Fernand gave her after making his inquiries 
respecting Giuditta ; so, with spectacles on 
nose, she hastened to satisfy herself of the 
astounding fact, and had no difficulty in the 
broad daylight in ascertaining that the boy’s 
suspicions were correct. 

With that true delicacy of feeling which 
is frequently found in the lowliest habita- 
tions, Susanna did not make any observa- 
tions which might pain Giuditta on her 
awaking ; she refrained from putting any 
questions to her respecting her reverse of 
fortune, enjoined Matteo to follow her ex- 
ample strictly, and not to show by a word 
or look that he knew who their visitor was, 
and then cordially offered to retain her in 
the house until she should find some means 
of obtaining a subsistence for herself. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

One of the most talented authoresses of 
the day has written a very clever work, en- 
titled “ The Misfortunes of a Successful 
Loverf and that title completety explains 
Fernand’s position with Lady Melrose after 
the Earl’s departure. Indeed, if these liai- 
sons be thoroughly inspected, it will be fre- 
quently found that those honnes fortunes 
which are so coveted and envied, cause a 
thousand times more mental suffering than 
those which are called “ unhappy passions !” 
How many conquests, ardently desired and 
perseveringly pursued, have proved sources 
of bitter disappointment and regret to those 
who have succeeded in achieving them ! 

It is thus that the parched traveller, 
dying from thirst on Afric’s burning plain, 
eagerly grasps the delusive fruits that ripen 
on the Dead Sea shore, and having carried 
them to his burning lips, despising the warn- 
ings of experience, has found them “ full of 
rottenness within,” and cast them from 
him in disgust ! In love, illusions are not 
so speedily dispelled, but the results of dis- 
enchantment are incalculably more severe. 

Lord Melrose feeling convinced that, after 
what had taken place, his remaining in the 
same house with Valerie would be pro- 
ductive of the greatest discomfort and em- 
barrassment, and that his presence would 
not be in anywise an impediment in the way 
of her fancy for Fernand, wisely resolved to 
quit Paris, without any recrimination, and 
also without making any announcement 
of the period at which he might return. He 
provided munificently for Lady Melrose’s 
personal expenses ; she remained as free as 
air under the aegis of her marriage, and the 
establishment was kept up on precisely the 
same scale as if the Earl had been with her. 

The first few days that followed Fer- 
nand’s decisive victory were supremely ra- 
diant, without a cloud. Valerie, who had 
listened to a thousand anecdotes by expe- 
rienced dowagers in the Duchess’s soloons, 
relative to the inconstancy of men, and the 
coldness which so speedily follows their 
success, seemed to hold it a point of honor 
to disprove the truth of the axiom ; and al- 
though she was fully aware that D’Arville’s 
passion was nothing more than an imagi- 
native caprice, it soothed her vanity, and 
she determined to make him the most de- 
voted and enthusiastic of all lovers. 

Whilst the Countess was thus perfectly 
mistress of her actions, the Duchess very 
prudently did not interfere with her in the 
least, and for a short time Fernand believed 
in the realization of that ideal happiness of 
which he had so often dreamed. Not the 
slightest thought of the cruelly deserted 
Giuditta, troubled the serenity of his mind ; 
he never heard of her nor from her, for, as 
the unhappy girl had only learned to write 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


93 


eince her intimacy with Fernand, she natu- 
rally distrusted her epistolary powers, and 
had sufficient tact to understand that long, 
querulous complaints were but sorry means 
of winning back her faithless lover’s heart. 
Accordingly she preserved a rigid silence, 
and Fernand entirely forgot her. 

Notwithstanding the lateness of the season 
a great number of visitors remained in 
Naples, and, consequently, various means 
of amusement presented themselves every 
day, but yet Fernand could never see 
enough of Lady Melrose ; he would not 
willingly have been one instant from her 
sight ; in the delirium of his passion he 
would have taken her in his arms and borne 
her to some desert isle, where, far from all 
eyes, he could alone have revelled in the 
contemplation of her charms. Every casual 
glance she cast upon another man appeared 
to his heated fancy to rob him of his rights ; 
tlie admiration she excited everywhere she 
went, instead of flattering his vanity, in- 
flicted a martyrdom upon him ; and he in- 
ternally approved the jealous precautions 
of the satraps of the East, who immure the 
object of their choice within the harem 
walls, and punish a gesture, a single look, 
with death. 

He frequently implored the lovely Count- 
ess, as he kneeled in abject subjection at her 
feet, to retire with him to some secluded 
villa near Sorentum to pass the summer 
months, and her ladyship, both wearied 
with his entreaties and requiring rest after 
the fatigues of the season, acc-eded to his 
request, upon condition that the Duchess de 
Marignan should accompany her and act as 
chaperon ; for her ladyship was by no means 
desirous of setting the usages of society at 
defiance, and proposed — when her tempo- 
rary fancy should have passed away — to 
avail herself of all the privileges of unsullied 
virtue ; she further exacted that Fernand 
should take apartments at some distance 
from her villa, in order that malignant 
tongues should be eftectually disarmed. 

Her ladyship selected a charming villa 
close upon the bay, built in the Greek style 
of architecture, of the whitest stone, and 
surrounded with groves of orange and lemon- 
trees, and tufts of odoriferous shrubs. In 
this voluptuous retreat — prepared for him 
by the Loves — Fernand, whilst contemplat- 
ing Valerie’s fair ethereal beauty every 
evening by the light of the moon, that 
threw her silvery beams upon the placid 
bosom of the sea, believed himself to be in 
Paradise — if ever there had been one on 
earth ; and yet, of all his romantic dreams, 
none had ever been so fleeting and so decep- 
tive as that with Valerie was doomed to be ! 

With her usual persincuity and kind con- 
sideration for others, the Duchess occupied 
one wing of the villa completely removed 
from Valerie’s apartments. Perceiving that 


her advice could not be productive of any 
good result, and knowing, from her own ex- 
tensive experience, that nothing produces 
satiety and disgust so speedily as a series 
of prolonged tHe-a-tttes with an impetuous, 
exacting lover, she feigned to shut her eyes 
to the scandalous liaison ; she made her ar- 
rangements so that she should never meet 
Fernand, of whose visits consequently she 
was in profound ignorance; and, as his 
name was never mentioned, Valerie some- 
times persuaded herself that she had out- 
witted the vigilance of her far-sighted rela- 
tive. 

In fact, the behavior of the Duchess was 
such as to encourage the idea. When 
Valerie spoke of her periodical head-ache, 
which returned with mathematical precision 
precisely at the same hour evei*y evening, 
the old lady would rise from her seat with 
exquisite politeness, express the same be- 
nevolent wish that her dear grandchild 
would feel better the next day, and then 
retire to her own apartments ; but when 
Lady Melrose flattered herself that the art- 
ful, lynx-eyed dowager was fast asleep, that 
excellent woman, attired simply in a rohe-de- 
chambre^ and with a powerful telescope in 
her hand, would watch for Fernand’s 
stealthy arrival by the light of the moon, 
that beams so brightly throughout the 
regions of the south. Every evening she 
saw him scale the balcony, and she smiled 
sardonically as she beheld his raptures on 
his nightly meeting with his lady-love. If 
she had not hated D’Arville she would 
have pitied him, for she knew her grand- 
daughter’s disposition thoroughly, and she 
could anticipate with unerring sagacity the 
thunder-storm that lowered on the poet, 
now frantic with delight, and elevated far 
above the summit of all earthly bliss. 

But Valerie was far from giving away to 
such romantic folly ; this mysterious, con- 
cealed sacrifice of every virtuous principle 
counted as nothing in ‘her eyes, but her 
worldly reputation was a very difterent 
thing. Since the Earl’s departure she had 
not been seen once in public with Fernand, 
and when he paid an open visit to her the 
Duchess was invariably present. D’Arville, 
too, loving her sincerely, desired to shield 
her from the possibility of suspicion, and 
endeavored to shroud their relations in an 
impenetrable veil ; he considered his lionor 
was involved in defending her fair fame 
from the least breath of c<flumny. He was 
too happy, too honorable, and too proud to 
find any deprivation in this mystery ; and, 
unlike the majority of men favored by 
women, he would not confide his success to 
his dearest friends under the inviolable seal 
of publicity ! 

Secure, as he thought himself, in the con- 
stant afiection of the only woman he had 
ever truly loved, and counting upon its 


94 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


boundless vitality, he gave himself up to the 
intoxicating delight that awaited him every 
evening in the perfumed thickets at Soren- 
tum ; he lived from day to day in an ethereal 
atin()S|)here of his own creation, in that sub- 
limated sympathy of souls of which he had 
so long dreamed. 

But the reckless man was not aware of 
that destiny whicli often causes us to lavish 
the treasures of our love upon that bosom 
by which they are not appreciated; he did 
not tliink of that natural, retributive law 
wliich gives to every mortal the just, equit- 
able recompense of his misdeeds, which re- 
turns upon us the sufferings we have in- 
flicted upon others, hurls back the poisoned 
arrow to the lips of him who sent it, and 
gives consolation, balm to the hearts of all 
who have sincerely loved. 

So long as Lady Melrose had to combat 
the demon of satiety, which might tear Fer- 
nand from her, she displayed all her winning 
graces, and made the most of her brilliant 
beauty with all the resources of an accom- 
plished coquette ; but when she saw that 
her fall had not in the least diminished her 
power over him, that possession had not 
cloyed, and that he worshipped her as de- 
votedly as ever, she yielded to that desire 
of tyrannizing which never fails to actuate 
a woman who is loved but does not love. 
Her narrow, envious, selfish heart had not 
forgiven his love for Giuditta, whose wither- 
ing contempt, on their meeting at the Earl’s 
mansion, she had not forgotten. These two 
inexpiable crimes demanded vengeance ; but 
she had found, and now prepared to exer- 
cise it. 

The dulcet, harmonious tones of her low 
voice, the angelic sweetness of her smile, 
her gentle, graceful manners and noble 
bearing, concealed an irritable, imperious, 
egotistic disposition. From her childhood 
she had been in the habit of revenging her- 
self on her inferiors for the degradations 
that Madame de Marignan heaped upon 
her; and assuredly they were transferred 
with interest to the domestics. On the 
evenings the Duchess received company, 
she had been permitted to remain in the 
saloon till a late hour, and sitting there 
upon a stool, apparently absorbed in her 
embroidery, the child — whom no one 
thought of — drank in lessons of treachery 
and falsehood, which in due course of time 
bore their inevitable fruits. She learned 
how to arrange bosom friends when they 
are absent, how to launch a calumny 
whilst stimulating to disbelieve it, how 
to hawk a malignant lie from house to 
house under pretence of severely censuring 
its circulation and giving no credit to it; 
and if by chance one of these <lear, cherish- 
ed acquaintances, whoso characters had 
been so skilfully dissected, whose reputa- 
tions were so scientifically murdereil, should 


happen to drop in, she saw her welcomed 
with smiling visages and open arms. 

Unfortunately for the lone girl, her edu- 
cation had been neglected on all important 
points; she was but slightly imbued with 
that knowledge which is indispensable to a 
woman in the upper ranks. Indeed, a 
school-girl of twelve years of age would 
have shamed her in elementary acquisitions, 
— and she had very indistinct ideas of re- 
ligion, which consisted chiefly in Madame 
de Marignan’s establishment, in kneeling 
upon a devotional chair with grace, and 
carrying a handsome missal, which was to 
be prominently displayed on all great ec- 
clesiastical occasions. In revenge, she had 
had the best masters Paris could produce 
to develop her physical advantages; she 
walked well, and danced to admiration; 
she could play Strauss’s waltzes almost 
correctly ; she sang sharply, but with a con- 
fidence that redeemed that slight defect; 
and was not too successful in her drawing. 

But, singular to sa}", she wrote wdth pe- 
culiar facility and elegance of expression ; 
and as she read all the literary and poetical 
trifles of the day, and w^as endowed with a 
good memory, she could use that jargon 
which often passes in society for talent, and 
not unfrequently proves a perfect substitute 
for its possession. 

Romantically in love with Valerie even 
before he became acquainted with her, and 
blinded by her seductive beauty the mo- 
ment that she met his eyes, Fernand had 
bowed before her as a divinity, and never 
sought to remove her from the pedestal on 
which his heart had placed her. To him, 
when in society, her voice was as the even- 
ing breezes, “ that breathe upon a bank of 
violets, stealing and giving odors ;” her 
eyes beamed upon his with the true light 
of love, her whole existence was a poetic 
dream, and as he gazed upon her, fascinated 
by her charms, or poure«l forth liis soul in 
ardent vows, he had no time to criticise the 
defects of her education. 

But, in the solitude they had created for 
themselves at Sorentum, in those long in- 
terviews which were renewed every day, 
Fernand discovered that he had not found 
a heart that responded to his own, nor, in 
the absence of delirious passion, could he 
enjoy the intimacy of a well-informed, ac- 
complished woman. 

The illusions in which he had wrapped 
himself were soon to be dispelled. Valerie 
was essentially a meretricious person ; her 
life W!is purely factitious, and she became 
lost if once removed from tlie narrow circle 
in which she moved. To enjoy the exqui- 
site delight of crushing a rival beauty, or 
to obtain the homage of the male idiots 
who constantly surrounded her, she would 
heighten her attractions with all the re- 
sources of the most recherche toilette, and 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


95 


would be the perfection of amiability, that 
people might say Lady Melrose was not 
only lovely but accomplished, witty, cour- 
teous, and charming in every point of view. 

But now she was perfectly alone with the 
man she had subdued, and now dragged in 
triumph at her chariot wheels, she gave 
way to her natural indolence, and met him 
continually with her mind, like her person, 
in complete dishabille. She did not deign 
to arrange her hair, would frequently appear 
with her curl-papers, and scarcely trouble 
herself to reply to what he said. Fernand 
would sometimes gaze on her in wonder, 
and ask himself whether that woman in 
loose slippers, who yawned as she lounged 
upon the sofa, with dishevelled locks, and 
enveloped in a dressing-gown, could be the 
Countess of Melrose, whose grace, good 
taste, and elegance were renowned, and 
quoted in the liighest circles of the two 
great capitals of the fashionable world. 

A woman who seeks to return a man’s 
affection never neglects her person ! Fer- 
nand was aware of that undoubted fact, 
and consequently looked upon Valerie’s con- 
temptuous forgetfulness as a bad omen for 
the continuance of her love. Ilis suspicions 
were soon verified, and the unhappy man 
passed, one by one, through every species 
of mental discouragement, until he arrived 
at that stage of prostration which is well 
defined by the understood but untranslat- 
able Fren( h term, ennui. Nothing can ex- 
ceed the depth of humiliation, the bitterness 
of suffering, wliioh is produced by this pros- 
tration in an individual by whom you flat- 
tered yourself you had been beloved ! The 
anguish consequent upon eternal separation 
is far to be preferred, for is it not incalcula- 
bly better to see the lovely flower fall be- 
neath the scythe of Death in all its splendor, 
than to behold it wither and decay beneath 
the blighting breath of frail inconstancy? 
In the one ca«e the heart preserves the un- 
dying freshness of regret, but in the other 
it breaks beneath the dull, chill load. Far 
better are the cruel pangs that elicit groans 
of anguish from the sufferer, than the insen- 
sibility that betrays the mortifying of a 
fatal wound! 

Fernand would willingly have bartered 
one half of his future life to have found him- 
self again at that period when he was so 
completely miserable, when he adored Va- 
lerie without the slightest hope, and the 
future was painted in the most sombre col- 
ors. But now the vision was dispelled; 
the past— filled as it was with love — was 
gone, stained, tarnished, and discolored ; 
the altar was overthrown, the divinity bro- 
ken, mutilated, and defiled ! 

The crisis arrived without Fernand utter- 
ing one syllable of complaint. That happi- 
ness which fled from him like a shadow had 
become a fantastic dream that floated in his 


brain, sometimes wearing the likeness of 
the glorious Giuditta or the more peaceful, 
gentle attractions of Betti ne. 

Then Valerie, who — though wearied with 
the farce of love — Avould not lose her slave, 
and saw this mournful, dreamy air with 
considerable apprehension, would approach 
him gently, recline her head all lovingly 
upon his shoulder, and whisper, in her 
blandest tones : 

“ Of what does my poet think?” 

And Fernand would answer, as he re- 
pressed a sigh : 

“ Of thee, my beloved ; ]^ow and for ever 
more 

But there was falsehood in the adage, as 
in the smile Valerie gave him in return. 

Between these beings an abyss had open- 
ed which could never be filled up ; illusion 
had disappeared, and e7inui and satiety had 
supervened. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Reclining comfortahly in her luxurious, 
well-cushioned chair, the Duchess de Marig 
nan kept a strict watch every evening, and 
beheld with malignant pleasure eacli in- 
creasing symjitom of D’Arville’s waning 
passion, indications which would have es- 
caped the notice of a less experienced per- 
son ; she congratulated herself upon her 
principles, of non-intervention, and laughed 
sarcastically as she beheld what she styled 
“ love dying from repletion.” 

“ Ah, ha !” quoth tlie dowager, throwing 
herself back upon the eider-down cushions, 
“ we understood things better in my time, 
and would have taken especial care to have 
avoided a three months’ tHe-d-lHe. I could 
not have beheved my grand-child was such 
a perfect school-girl! But perhaps I may 
be finding fault without a cause, and she 
may be using the best possible means to get 
rid of this tedious, romantic fool, Fernand. 
Aye ! aye ! it is amusing, however, when 
one cannot appear longer upon the boards 
of public life, to remain behind the scenes, 
and pull the strings by which we make these 
puppets dance. It is consoling to me to 
know, too, that whenever 1 may be tired of 
this trifling, of this child’s play, I can imme- 
diately turn the larce into a fearful tragedy 
according to my will. They have dared to 
contemn me, have they? And they think, 
poor silly dupes, that I am only a superan- 
nuated woman, fit merely to be i)laced upon 
the shelf, — to have a word spoken to mo 
now and then, as a bone is thrown to a 
worn-out, used-iq) hound. And yet I have 
merely to lift up my finger, and the rain 
would pour from this girl’s eyes, who has 


96 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


never dropped a tear during her happy life 
except when hypocrisy rendered it neces- 
sary, and at her own free-will. Besides her 
foolish vanity, she has but one vulnerable 
point in her composition : but I know well 
where it is, and when the time is sufficiently 
ripe, and I choose to attack it, by my faith 
I will strike home ! As for this dreaming 
poet, who flatters himself he has defeated 
all my plans, let him beware ! And this 
Melrose, who dared to beard me — his blood, 
his life is mine, and when it suits me I will 
have it! Yes, all those haughty heads 
shall bow, and their knees shall bend before 
me, and I will cover them with misery, 
opprobrium, and disgrace ! 

One morning the amiable dowager was 
indulging in similar reflections, when Valerie 
came to tell her she had received a letter 
from the Earl, in which his lordship stated 
he should soon be in Paris, and intended to 
remain there during the winter months, 
and that he proposed taking a handsome 
residence, where her ladyship might give a 
series of splendid concerts, balls, and fetes, 
if her renovated health would permit. The 
Duchess heard her grand-daughter read the 
letter with great attention, and then as- 
suming an air of commiseration, she said, in 
her kindest tones : 

“ Poor, dear child, what a terrible blow 
for you I What will become of you — what 
will you do ? Now, pray don’t blush and 
tremble, darling,” she added, perceiving that 
Valerie winced under this brisk attack, ill- 
covered as it was with pretended sympathy ; 
“ I can hold my tongue, dear, although — 
Heaven be praised ! — I am not yet quite 
blind ! So long as you were happy, my 
child, I was quite silent ; but now your de- 
lightful plans are about to be destroyed and 
your happiness is threatened, I feel for yon, 
and my heart is ready to become the de- 
pository of your griefs.” 

Valerie turned pale and red alternately as 
she listened to the Duchess, whose kind 
words and tone oflfered such a complete 
contrast to the severity, ill-humor, and ob- 
jurgations with which she had conducted 
herself towards her grandchild in the earlier 
periods of her life ; and, surprised and con- 
fused as she felt at this point-blank shot, 
that went at once home to its mark. Lady 
Melrose put the best face she could upon the 
very unpleasant state of affairs, and even 
thought she could divert the dowager’s sus- 
picions from the real truth. 

“ I think you have formed an erroneous 
opinion, grandmother,” she replied ; “ Lord 
Melrose has certainly behaved ill to me on 
several occasions, but, as I have frequently 
heard you say, it is a woman’s province to 
forgive ; and is there one amongst us all 
who is not aware, in the bottom of her 
heart that she has need of some indulgence 
for her errors 1” 


A slightly sarcastic smile curled the 
Duchess’s lip, but she did not deign to an- 
swer ; and as her silence became embarrass- 
ing, Valerie was obliged to continue her 
pitiable deception. 

“ But now, grandmotlier,” she said, as- 
suming consummate coolness, but trembling 
like an aspen-leaf — “ but now that my health 
is quite re-established I shall leave Naples 
without the least regret ; and as I shall re- 
visit my native land with the greatest 
pleasure, I cannot but approve of Lord Mel- 
rose’s projects for the winter. I shall en- 
deavor to make the house as agreeable as 
possible, and I trust, grandmother, that you 
will assist me in doing the honors of my 
drawing-room.” 

“ Pooh ! pooh 1 pooh 1 darling,” said the 
Duchess, taking a pinch of snuff from a 
richly-enamelled box, with a miniature of 
one of her former lovers painted on the lid ; 
“ you have no need of my assistance to do 
the honors of your drawing-room, or to help 
you in any of your domestic arrangements. 
You are young, fair, pretty, and delicately- 
shaped, my dear, and aping the child sits 
well enough upon you up to a certain point; 
but take care how you play your cards, for 
sometimes the game proves dangerous. 
Well, if you will not confide your little 
secrets to me, I cannot helj) it. You have 
had enough of Naples, and too much of 
Sorentum, it appears. Pray, pray don’t 
blush ; it is so very plebeian, and quite out 
of date I I see you are beginning to become 
a sensible creature. You understand, after 
your experience of twenty and some years, 
that a Melrose, more or less fair, more or 
less boring, more or less excursive in hia 
amourettes, is to be found every day : but 
an income of forty thousand a year, the 
choicest diamonds, a castle in Scotland, a 
villa on the banks of the Thames, and a 
magnificent town-house, are things that are 
not picked up in the streets. It is all very 
well not to be too savagely virtuous, for a 
lover one is tired of may be easily cast offy 
whilst a sensible woman thinks twice before 
she throws away the little comforts I just 
spoke of. Your enamoured slave, the poet, 
will tell you that love comes at a'foot pace 
and goes off at full gallop : and now that we 
understand each other thoroughly, dear, let 
us talk upon some other subject.” 

Lady Melrose’s heart sank within her as 
she felt herself completely, irretrievably in 
the power of her spiteful grandmother, who 
was amusing herself with her distress, like 
a cat plays with a mouse before it kills the 
little animal. She fidgetted on her chair, 
rose, looked out of the open window on the 
sea, returned to her seat, and evinced every 
desire to terminate the interview ; but the 
Duchess, enjoying Valerie’s embarrassment, 
would not speak, and when her rancour was 
sufficiently gratified for the present, slm 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


9T 


said, with the utmost calmness glancing at 
ner watch the while : 

“ Don’t be uneasy, my love, the hour of 
your devoted Oorydon’s arrival has not 
come. I will tell you when it is time for 
you to receive him, for I know it well. By- 
the-bye, dear, has it ever struck you, since 
you have been in Naples, to make any in- 
quiries respecting the fate of your unhappy 
mother? You are aware she was an 
Italian by birth, and for some time was 
prima donna at the San Carlo theatre ?” 

Valerie shuddered as she heard her 
mother named, for, although she had only 
known her when she was an infant, she 
preserved a most affectionate remembrance 
of her — a fact which is by no means rare 
amongst children who have been deprived 
in their early years of a fond mother’s cares ; 
her delicately-tinted cheeks were instantly 
suffused with a deep red, fire radiated from 
her usually soft blue eyes, which she dropped 
quickly upon the floor, lest the Duchess 
should perceive and revel in the pain the 
last barbed arrow had inflicted. 

“ My poor mother has been long dead,” 
she said, after a slight pause ; “ you have 
told me so repeatedly.” 

“ Yes, dead to us — that is, to your father, 
whom she dishonored so foully, and to me, 
who never spoke her name without shud- 
dering. When you were but a child, under 
my protection, I thought it right to pursue 
a line of conduct which should keep you 
from the knowledge of your degraded con- 
nection ; but it is a very different thing now 
that you are free from all control, unres- 
traint mistress of your actions ; and, if you 
preserve the slightest touch of affection for 
the poor woman, who — to do her justice — 
was really a good mother previously to her 
scandalous elopement, you ought to make 
some inquiries before you leave this country, 
and endeavor to ascertain whether she has 
left any family — any brothers and sisters of 
yours, you know — who may be in penury 
and despair, and require support and conso- 
lation. You are aware, dearest, that you have 
been fond of playing the part — more or less 
naturally, and consequently successfully — of 
a pitying angel, descended from the pure 
celestial realms ; now do keep up the farce 
to the end, for it’s a character that fits 
slight figures, fair hair, and azure eyes !” 

Valerie still trembled in every limb, but 
now it was with the rage that she dared not 
pour out upon the venomous old woman, 
who was goading her to madness with the 
cynical expression of her imperturbable 
countenance, and the pitiless sarcasms ut- 
tered in her harsh, slow, croaking voice. 
Nevertheless the Duchess had evoked a 
tenderly beloved phantom, she had touched 
upon the only chord in that stony bo- 
som that vibrated with human sympathy, 
and though Valerie hesitated to lay bare 


the vulnerable spot to her merciless relation, 
the desire of ascertaining whether her 
mother still lived overcame her reluctance 
to prolong the conversation, and she pro- 
ceeded thus, as she endeavored to conceal 
the extent of her disquietude : 

“ Why do you talk to me, madam, of my 
poor mother ? You never liked her, and, 
had I listened to your counsels, I too should 
have erased her from my memory.” 

“ Since you take upon yourself to address 
me in that impertinent tone,” the Duchess 
answered tartly, , “ we will drop the sub- 
ject and suiting the action to the word, 
she hummed an air from a popular opera, 
with the tremulous voice natural to her 
time of life. Valerie rose in a fit of anger, 
and was about to leave the room abruptly ; 
but she changed her plan when she had al- 
most reached the door, and returning, with 
a smile upon her countenance, sat down 
upon a low ottoman at the Duchess’s feet, 
and said, after having kissed her shrivelled 
hand with all the semblance of affection : 

“ Forgive my rashness, grandmother. I 
am unwell and irritable this evening, and I 
forgot myself in answering you so rudely, 
especially when you take so much interest 
in my welfare. But do have pity on me, 
and tell me whether you can give me any 
information by which I may discover whe- 
ther my poor mother lives. Should she 
exist, we are rich. Lord Melrose, with all 
his faults, does not want generosity, and we 
could afford her at least a competency in her 
age.” 

Madame de Marignan calmly released her 
hand from her grandchild’s grasp, for she 
was of a hardened nature, and detested any 
show of feeling approaching to a scene. 

“ You are somewhat fickle in your fan- 
cies, dear,” she said; “but I suppose the 
fault must be pardoned, for it runs slightly 
in the blood of the De Marignans. I could 
punish you, were I so minded, by refusing 
to satisfy your curiosity, but I will not abuse 
my power. Your mother, Valerie, has been 
dead now upwards of two years; if she 
acted wrongly she was punished severely 
for her faults, for her end — according to the 
details that have reached me — was terrible 
indeed!” 

Lady Melrose carried her handkerchief to 
her eyes, and suppressed a sigh. 

“ You must understand, my love, that the 
particulars of her life for some years pre- 
vious to her death are not perfectly clear ; 
but it is affirmed that after she quitted your 
father she married a second time, in defiance 
of all laws, and that she has left some ille- 
gitimate children behind her.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, grandmother!” Va- 
lerie exclaimed impetuously, “ assist me in 
discovering these unfortunate creatures ! I 
feel that, never having had a sister, I shall 
love her dearly — that is, should I find one. 


98 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


Great Heaven ! these nnhappy children may 
have dragged on their existence in suffering 
and want, whilst I have been living in lux- 
ury and opulence !” 

“ Good, dear child, good !” the old woman 
answered, with a malignant smile upon her 
face, as she pointed to the clock upon the 
mantel-piece, which marked the hour of 
Fernand’s daily visit; “but you will soon 
forget these miserable thoughts in the de- 
lights of your boudoir; he is waiting for 
you, love, no doubt!” 

It was impossible to reply to this home- 
thrust, so Valerie rose, thanked her grand- 
mother with a hypocritical smile, and left 
the room. 

A few days afterwards the Duchess and 
Lady Melrose left the villa at Sorentum, 
and returned to the Yittoria Hotel. 

One evening, Fernand, having dined with 
Valerie, was lounging upon the balcony of 
her saloon, contemplating the joyous specta- 
cle of the sun setting in the western sky, 
and casting upon the light ripple of the 
placid sea masses of bright fugitive colors, 
that no artist, however talented, could re- 
produce upon the canvass without being ac- 
cused of gross exaggeration. The poet was 
absorbed in profound melancholy, and 
thought of his past life, — of the gentle soul 
that he had spurned, the devoted enthu- 
siastic girl he had deserted, the vision of the 
present that had fled, his extinct passion, and 
the obscurity that veiled the future from 
his view. There are sad truths which the 
human heart repels, and will not admit 
without the most desperate struggles ; but, 
when once the light of truth has been borne 
in upon the mind, the eyes are opened, and 
further delusion becomes impossible ! 

Lady Melrose had thrown off the chrysalis 
integument which she had worn in her ver- 
dant retreat at Sorentum, and now re-ap- 
peared in all the gaudy colors of the butter- 
fly, equally radiant, elegant, and amiable as 
she had ever been ; but, as to Fernand, the 
charm had been dispelled, the last link that 
bound him to her was irreparably broken, 
his vaporous passion had exhaled, and again 
his heart was dull, cold, and void. 

Whilst Fernand remained upon the bal- 
cony as we have stated, Valerie, looking 
lovely, and admirably well-dressed, was 
flirting with several young men at the 
further end of the apartment, whence their 
bursts of merriment fell painfully upon Fer- 
nand’s ear, for the inmost feelings of his 
heart were totally at variance with the 
gaiety of the glittering scene. Whilst Lady 
Melrose was running her Angers over the 
keys of the piano, now and then striking 
a chord with very indifferent talent, and the 
young men who surrounded her were lavish 
in their praises, which she received with 
her natural vanity and nonchalance, the 
sounds of a sweet and powerful voice in the 


street, accompanied — according to the Italian 
custom — with a guitar, penetrated into the 
saloon, and drew Valerie’s polite, smiling, 
flattering, sneering auditors to the balcony, 
in order to ascertain who the unknown 
musician was. 

Not wishing to encounter the mirthful 
band of triflers in his then moody humor, 
D’Arville retired into the apartment, and 
found himself quite alone with Lady Mel- 
rose, who had thrown herself upon an otto- 
man, and was pouting at the sudden flight 
of her admirers ; but, as he loved music en- 
thusiastically, he did not lose one single 
note of the simple, melodious air, that had 
struck his excited imagination to be the dy- 
ing fall of some last, sad farewell. The 
strain seemed to be not altogether unknown 
to him ; he passed his hand across his 
brow as if to clear away all doubt upon his 
brain by the outward action, and at the 
same time Valerie, tapping him with her 
fan, said sharply : 

“ You, too, dreamer, who are generally 
so mad about music, will you not hear this 
ballad? 

Fernand rose mechanically, offered his 
arm to Lady Melrose without uttering a 
word, and, stepping with her on to the bal- 
cony, dimly perceived a female, clothed in 
black, who appeared desirous of concealing 
herself as much as possible in the obscurity 
of an angle formed by the walls of some 
adjacent buildings. 

“By my faith!” one of the gentlemen 
said gaily, “ if that bird’s plumage be equal 
to her warbling she must be a phoenix ?” 

“Or rather,” Val6rie replied, secretly 
piqued that any woman should withdraw 
attention from her, “ she must be marvel- 
lously ugly, or she would not hide herself 
so carefully.” 

“ And I would bet, on the contrary, my 
lady, that she is beautiful — almost as lovely 
as yourself!” 

Valerie smiled graciously at the compli- 
ment, which was not underserved, as she 
stood with her serial figure gracefully poised 
in apparent attention to the singer, and her 
head slightly drooping on D’Arville’s shoul- 
der ; not that she had one idea about him 
at the moment, but, in histrionic par- 
lance, she had struck an attitude, intended 
to have a poetical, picturesque effect upon 
her audience. 

Suddenly the low wailing melody was 
stopped ; for an instant silence prevailed ; 
and then Fernand shuddered and pressed 
his hands upon his eyes as a piercing cry 
rose upon the air. 

“ What in heaven’s name can the woman 
mean ?” Lady Melrose exclaimed disdain- 
fully, with a glance at D’Arville; “is that 
tragedy squall in the part she is playing, or 
did the carlino I tossed to the poor creature 
unfortunately strike her in the face ?” 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


99 


“By mine honor!” said the young Nea- 
politan, who had spoken first, “I should 
have gained my money had I wagered that 
yon songstress was a pretty woman, for she 
is the most splendid creature in all Italy — 
Giuditta Castelli, La Superba 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

The cry that had escaped the devoted 
girl, when she perceived Fernand in such 
close, atfectionate proximity to Lady Mel- 
rose, told him that her fatal passion burned 
as fiercely as ever in her heart. He quitted 
V alerie’s said abruptly, and left the house ; 
and as he walked repidly home, fearing 
to meet Giuditta at every moment in 
the streets, in which case it was most 
probable he would have to endure some 
harrowing scene, he felt he could not love 
the lost one, but that nevertheless he had a 
sacred duty to discharge with regard to her, 
and that before he left Naples he would dis- 
cover where she was lodged and settle a 
competence upon her. 

Accordingly, upon the following day he 
commenced an active search, but the police 
system in the Neapolitan dominions is not 
carried to the minute details of perfection 
that exist in London and Paris, and only 
occupies its attention with an espionage on 
high political characters and incendiary 
demagogues ; so that all the information 
Fernand could obtain, by the most diligent 
inquiries, was, that the morning after the 
discovery at the Earl’s suburban villa, Giu- 
ditta had taken up her abode with a poor 
woman, named Susanna. He repaired im- 
mediately to the locality where the humble 
maccaroni vender lived, but found the shop 
closed, and was told that the good woman 
had died of a fit of apoplexy a few days 
previously. 

The traces of the unhappy girl being thus 
lost, Fernand feared she had returned to 
her old habits with the renewal of her 
penury, and the thought that he was the 
cause of so much physical misery and moral 
degradation weighed heavily upon his mind ; 
he bitterly regretted his ingratitude in cast- 
ing the true heart from him ; his liaison 
with Lady Melrose fell daily into a more 
complete state of atrophy, and both he and 
she anxiously awaited the happy moment 
when his departure for Paris should relieve 
both of them of a chain which they now 
heartily detested. 

Whilst Valerie was now making the thou- 
sand preparations which are indispensably 
necessary for a fashionable woman, before 
she undertakes a journey of some duration, 
she extracted as much information as she j 


could from her treacherous grandmother, 
respecting the children her mother was sup- 
posed to have left in Naples ; but the dowa- 
ger played with her at her ease, piquing her 
curiosity without definitely satisfying it, and 
preparing a theatrical denouement where- 
with effectually to mortify her ladyship, 
when, in her estimation, the proper time 
should come. 

^ Affairs remained in this state, the respec- 
tive perquisitions of Lady Melrose and Fer- 
nand being without any practical results, 
until one beautiful evening in the middle of 
September, when the latter was strolling 
quietly down the Chiaja. Nature that 
evening had donned its gayest robe, — the 
sun was slowly setting in a bank of gold 
and ruby-colored clouds, the light land- 
breeze stole softly by, impregnated with 
perfumes from a thousand shrubs, — a long 
string of well-appointed equipages and num- 
bers of cavaliers drove and rode down the 
Strada-Nuova, — groups of merry half-naked 
children gamboled and rolled upon the 
white sand of tlie bay, — and the fishermen 
sang their native lays in untaught harmony, 
as they mended their nets and prepared for 
the labors of the coming day. 

The atmosphere was redolent of joy, and 
peace, and love, but the happiness diffused 
around, the gay laugh of the noble dames — 
the caracolling of the mettled steeds, the 
deep tones of the contented fishermen, the 
shriller notes of the women and the lisping 
prattle of their babes, offended D’Arville, 
for they contrasted deeply with the melan- 
choly that possessed him. No one in all 
that joyous crowd, he thought, had one 
sympathising tear-drop for his cruel suffer- 
ings ; in the isolation of his heart it reverted 
to those days when he was beloved by one 
of those kind hearts which men only woo 
to break, and he walked on moodily, neither 
looking to the right nor to the left, nor re- 
plying to the numerous remarks made to 
him by his numerous acquaintances as they 
cantered by, when his reverie was disturbed 
by his seeing a priest pass by, bearing the 
elements which the Roman Catholic Church 
decrees necessary for a person in their 
dying hours. With all his faults Fernand 
had retained the religious impressions incul- 
cated in his youth in all their purity ; he 
took off his hat, and bent his head meekly 
as the Host was carried by, and murmured 
a prayer for the eternal welfare of the part- 
ing soul. When he replaced his hat upon 
his head he felt an instinctive, unaccountable 
desire to ascertain whither the priest was 
proceeding, and wishing at the same time 
to free himself from the crowd of horsemen, 
carriages, and promenaders upon the Stra- 
da-Nuova, he followed the footsteps of the 
holy father, an aged man, of gentle bearing 
and venerable aspect. 

The ecclesiastic was guided by a young 


100 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


boy — who evidently had been to seek him — 
through a number of narrow dirty streets, 
until he reached the door of a miserable 
house ; and, as it is the custom in Italy for 
any one who chooses to accompany the 
priest, and join their prayers to his for the 
soul of the dying individual, Fernand — act- 
ing under the influence of Christian sym- 
pathy, and perhaps of a vague curiosity 
which he could not repel — walked into the 
passage of the house, ascended some creak- 
ing dilapidated stairs, passed through the 
half-opened door of a bed-chamber into 
which the boy and the priest had entered, 
and crouched down, unperceived, in a cor- 
ner of the room, which had been purposely 
darkened to shade the gorgeous evening 
glow from the poor sufferer’s eyes. There, 
holding his breath and restraining as much 
as possible the pulsations of his heart, which 
came thick upon him as if induced by some 
presentiment of evil, he was a witness to the 
parting moments of a Christian soul, aided 
by all the consolations of the Koman Catho- 
lic religion. 

Fernand prayed internally for a few sec- 
onds, and then, lifting his eyes, beheld a 
wretched truckle bed, on which lay the 
emaciated form of a female still in the 
spring-time of her life. He started, a shud- 
der thrilled through his frame, and the cold 
sweat stood in thick drops upon his brow ; 
he rubbed his eyes, looked again, and saw 
that that wan, fleshless, dying woman was 
Giuditta ! 

There — extended upon that bed of sufier- 
ing, without a charitable hand to administer 
to her last requirements, alone, abandoned 
by the whole world, the hapless girl, once 
so radiant in her queen-like beauty, so gay 
and light of heart, so richly endowed with 
physical attractions by bounteous nature, 
that happiness seemed to form a material 
component part of her existence — there lay 
the victim of misplaced affection ! The 
scalding tears ran down Fernand’s counte- 
nance as he beheld the piteous sight, and 
with the greatest difficulty he refrained 
from giving vent to the misery that racked 
his breast. 

A ray of the declining sun threw its pur- 
ple tint, as if in mockery, upon the pallid 
cheek of the dying girl, disclosing more 
clearly to Fernand the ravages his cruel de- 
sertion of her had produced. Outside the 
open window a wicket bird-cage was sus- 
pended, from which a bullfinch trilled out 
its liquid notes ; and the child who had 
fetched the priest, having fulfilled his mis- 
sion and wearied himself with his task, 
threw himself upon a bundle of straw in 
another corner of the room, and was in- 
stantly fast asleep. This boy was Matteo, 
who, after Susanna’s sudden death, had re- 
mained with Giuditta, and been protected 
by her. 


The bird that sung so joyously, tiu J-nld 
slumbering with a smile upon his f^trCed 
lips, and the priest from long habit calm and 
self-possessed in the presence of the great 
antagonist, all formed an extraordinary con- 
trast with the expression of despair on Giu- 
ditta’s countenance, — the despair of a being, 
of great natural perception and enthusiastic 
feelings, devoid of a religious culture, who 
had given way from a want of training in 
the straight and narrow path to the lava- 
like torrent of her love, and had passed her 
short existence, from the cradle to the tomb, 
without one pitying heart, one kind in- 
structing friend. 

The good father having uncovered and 
arranged the sacred elements, advanced to- 
wards the bed with the words of hope and 
consolation on his lips; and, as Fernand 
heard them, he prepared to listen to Giu- 
ditta’s last confession, from which he was 
to become acquainted with the unfathom- 
able depth of the affection borne by that no- 
ble heart to him, a love strong as death, and 
which even then, in her last hour, struggled 
with death itself. 

“ Oh ! Father!” the poor girl murmured, 
in answer to the priest’s exhortations : “ I 
loved— even to idolatry — a man worthy of 
a million times my love. He was young, 
handsome as the sculptured angels we see 
upon the tombs in the great cathedrals, kind 
and good ; but he did not love me. Ah ! 
no I he despised me ; for he knew what I 
had gone through, and that I bad been born 
in infamy I Father I he could not under- 
stand the purity of my affection for him ; he 
only knew that I had been brought up in 
misery, and that want had driven me to 
vice; but he did not know that I abhorred 
the degradation I was compelled to undergo, 
that I was a victim, but never a willing 
agent in my crime. My apparent resigna- 
tion was the stolid apathy of despair, and I 
preserved it until the first day my eyes fell 
upon him in the church, where I had gone 
to implore the Almighty to forgive my in- 
voluntary errors, and mercifully to spare me 
some ray of happiness on earth. For I was 
alone, father, cooped up as it were in a nar- 
row cell, imprisoned on a barren island, for- 
ever cruelly debarred from the thousand 
sights and sounds of joy that were contin- 
ually presented to my eyes and ears. 

“ Heaven heard my prayers and sent him 
to me, and then a new, delicious, intoxi- 
cating existence opened to me. The sounds 
of his voice — so low, so wondrous sweet! — 
seemed to me to surpass all that I had ever 
heard, even in our own land, the native 
home of melody: his looks — so soft, and 
full of love ! — glided into my soul through 
the long dark lashes that fringed his lids, 
bearing hope to my benighted heart, and in 
the madness of my passion I dreamed of 
future bliss. 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


101 


“ Father ! I thought myself beloved — be- 
loved by him ! — and the thought was Para- 
dise ! Even now, when the hand of death 
is upon lUe, and I feel my poor remains of 
strength are failing me as the moments pass, 
the remembrance comes back upon me of 
the unutterable happiness I enjoyed for some 
few months, the burning words whispered 
nightly in my ears as we strolled beneath 
the rays of the bright moon, the blissful de- 
lirium of the senses when soul meets soul! 
Could you believe it, father, that men can 
deceive so wantonly ? Aye 1 what are their 
professions of eternal love but lies, father, 
cruel, abominable deceits ?” 

The priest, whose age and holy profession 
had placed him for many years beyond the 
influence of earthly passions, heard these 
despairing exclamations with affi-ight. He 
was of that tranquil temperament which 
cannot comprehend the excitement of more 
ardent spirits, he merely brought the 
Church’s consolations to the dying as an 
imperative duty that must be discliarged ; 
so, taking Giuditta’s hand, still trembling 
from the overwhelming recollection of the 
flrst months passed with D’Arville, he en- 
deavored to bring her back to the reality of 
her position. 

“ Daughter !” he said kindly, but impress- 
ively : “ I implore you to cast all these vain, 
dangerous recollections from your mind. 
Think that you are upon the brink of eter- 
nity, that you are approaching that solemn 
moment when the help of man cannot avail, 
and you must stand before your judge. 
Poor misguided lamb 1 I entreat you not to 
quit this world with these culpable regrets. 
Pray to the Almighty that he may forgive 
you your sins through the great atonement 
of his Blessed Son, for, verily daughter, you 
have much need of grace.” 

“ I know it but too well, father ; do not 
increase my misery, but listen to the out- 
pourings of a broken, contrite heart. You 
enjoin me to forget the past, to throw the 
recollections of my hopes and fears far from 
me, and to think of Heaven alone. Do you 
suppose that throughout my young life I 
have not constantly implored the Eternal 
Being for that forgetfulness of myself which 
. would have made me happy ? Do you sup- 
pose that in my long, lone, wretched hours 
I have not prayed to Him to wrap my mem- 
ory in oblivion ? Father, the remembrance 
of my blissful moments has destroyed me !” 

As the unhappy woman murmured these 
words at intervals, she gasped fearfully, and, 
at the conclusion of the broken sentence, 
fell back exhausted on the bed. The priest 
trembled, for he believed the soul was leav-. 
ing its earthly tabernacle without one ray 
of hope, and he hastened to recite the 
prayers for those in extremis. In a few 
minutes the solemn sounds recalled Giuditta 
to consciousness, she raised herself upon her 


elbow, fixed her fast-glazing eyes upon the 
priest, and said, with a ghastly smile that 
went to Fernand’s heart : 

“ You would scarcely credit me, father, 
looking at me as you do now, when I tell 
you that once I possessed more beauty than 
falls to the common lot of woman. When 
I walked through the streets, proud and 
erect, the men stopped to gaze at me, and 
cried — ‘There goes the pride of Naples!’ 
Songs, flowers, and verses followed me 
wherever I proceeded ; and has he not often 
called me — ‘the glory of all Italy!’ Ah! 
me ! good father, that was iv^ng ago ; and 
my eyes, then so bright, have become dim- 
med with tears. Would you believe it, gray 
hairs — white hairs — father, are mingled with 
my raven locks, and I am only eighteen 
years of age ? 

“ Oh ! how often would he fold me in his 
arms and say : ‘ Giuditta, my beloved, you 
are exquisitely lovely!’ But he lied! I 
was not the creature he adored ; he loved 
another, — beautiful too, after the fashion of 
her country. Her hair was flaxen, father, 
like the cherubims in Paradise ; she was 
fair as the lilies of the field, and her eyes 
were heavenly blue : but, oh !” — she groaned 
heavily — “ that woman has caused my 
death ! 

“ It happened one evening, some few 
weeks ago, that I had dragged ray limbs to 
the Ohiaja, to try and gain a few carlini to 
sustain my own existence and that of the 
poor boy there, when I saw her standing on 
a balcony, and my Fernand by her side. I 
returned here in a state of madness. I 
passed the whole night in inexpressible 
agony, and from that hour my fate was 
sealed. Death has marked me for his own, 
and Heaven is my witness, father, that I 
look to it as a deliverance. 

“ Oh, Father ! will not the cruel agony I 
have endured redeem my errors ? Alas ! to 
be despised by him you love, to find your 
heart, that beats alone for him, a gulf of 
misery, of shame, and of remorse ; to think 
that when he places a soft kiss upon your 
cheek, that he may think that cheek has 
been polluted by the kisses of another, and 
turn away in anger and disgust ; and that 
this phantom of the past rises forever in 
his mind ! To lavish on him all that afiec- 
tion and devotion can suggest, and, in re- 
turn, to receive nothing but contempt ! 
These, father, are sufferings that cannot be 
borne, for they must kill !” 

The priest was deeply moved with this 
despairing grief, which surpassed all that 
he had ever witnessed. 

“ Daughter !” he said, “ repose your hope 
in the unbounded clemency of Heaven. 
That heart which man has despised the 
Almighty will mercifully receive, for if you 
have been guilty, you have suffered through 
your mistaken love.” 


102 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


‘‘ Ah ! father !” the girl replied ; “ I have 
loved indeed, and even in ray solitude and 
my desertion not one momentary thought 
of hatred and revenge has stolen to my 
heart. No! I have always blessed, and 
prayed to Heaven to bless him, even when I 
knew that he was in the arms of my de- 
tested rival. Yes, father, you would not 
think it, but even then I was happy in 
nourishing that thought, for it consumed my 
heart, and I knew that it must bring me 
certain death. Oh ! how often have I 
grovelled in the dust, cursing that 3"outh 
and strength tnat kept this life within, but 
death has come at last, — the death of a 
poor, betrayed, cruelly deserted girl, at 
eighteen years of age!” 


CHAPTER XXXVH. 

When Giuditta, reduced to infantile weak- 
ness, broken by pain and mental agony, 
sought not to delay the moment that should 
remove her from this earth, the light even- 
ing breeze wafted the sweet perfume of a 
clematis that grew outside the wall into the 
darkened room, the birds trilled out theif 
joyous songs, and the boy, “ slumbered like 
an unweaned child.” 

“ See, father !” Giuditta faintly murmur- 
ed ; “ all nature seems to smile upon my 
death ; all abandon me, and even this boy, 
whom I have struggled so strenuously to 
support, sleeps peaceably whilst I am in 
this mortal agony. Oh ! why, great Heav- 
en, should it be so ? My faults and crimes 
never did harm to any one, but only re- 
coiled upon myself. Oh, it is horrible to 
die thus, without a friendly bosom being 
nigh, without one pitying tear to soften the 
anguish of the last moments of my life ! 
And yet, what would life be to me without 
dear Fernand’s love !” 

“ Forget that man, daughter,” the priest 
replied, “ he has injured you deeply ; think 
only of your God I See to what a pass, un- 
happy girl, the mad follies of your youth 
have brought you ! What are the piteous 
results of your devotedness, your illimitable 
love? — abandonment and ruin! Think, I 
implore jmu, of eternity, compared to which 
all human sufferings are but as a momen- 
tary dream ; there is yet time to make your 
peace with the Father of all mercy, if your 
repentance is sincere.” 

“ Yes, father, I deeply deplore the first 
errors of my life; that past which placed an 
inseparable barrier between him and me, 
that robbed me of the blessing of his love, 
the only happiness I ever enjoyed or ever 
longed for. Alas ! father, at this solemn 
moment, when life is fleeting from me, and 


every broken gasp brings me still nearer to 
my end, I cannot regret those moments of 
ecstatic bliss I passed witli him, I cannot 
repent of having loved him. Were you 
even now to hurl your curses on my head 
for making the avowal, I must say, that 
now, whilst death awaits its prey, I think 
more of him than of the future welfare of 
my soul. It is for him, for his happiness, 
that my cold, trembling lips would murmur 
my last prayer. To see him once again, 
were it only for one single moment, — to 
lay my aching head for one instant on his 
heart, — I would forego eternity ■” 

“ Stop ! in the name of Heaven !” Fernand 
said, throwing himself upon his knees by 
the bedside ; “ do not finish those impious 
words. Look at me, Giuditta! behold me 
here, repentant, in despair ! Giuditta ! my 
cherished Giuditta! until this moment I 
knew not how much I loved you !” 

At the sound of that beloved voice the 
jmung girl raised herself upright in the bed, 
whilst gratitude and joy lighted up her 
face, already clouded with the veil of death. 
She extended her thin hand, and cast a 
look of ineffable tenderness upon Fernand, 
— of love as pure, as deep, as infinite as 
that futurity which was opening before her. 
Fernand, mad with grief, took her wasted 
hand, and pressed it against his breast, 
whilst the remorse that choked his utter- 
ance found relief in tears. 

Giuditta gazed fondly on him with her 
filling eyes ; she put no questions to him, 
she asked not what singular chance had 
brought him to her in that solemn moment ; 
it was enough for her that he was there, 
that he held her hand in his, that his eyes 
looked upon her with his old regard of 
love ; she was happy, and in the intoxica- 
tion of delight, she had no further boon to 
ask of God. 

The good priest endeavored to cut short 
this interview, and severely reproached 
Fernand for the interruption, which, under 
the circumstances, he almost deemed a sa- 
crilege, but Fernand, yielding only to his 
emotions, heeded him not. 

“ Peace, father, I beseech you,” Giuditta 
said softly ; “ disturb me not. I have pray- 
ed long and fervently to Heaven that I , 
might see him once again ; m3" petition has 
been granted, and I die content.” 

“No! Giuditta, no! no!” Fernand cried; 

“ you shall not die, you shall go with me 
from this miserable retreat, if I carry you 
in my arms, with your dear head resting 
on my heart ; you shall be my wife ; I will 
surround you with every comfort, with de- 
lights that shall erase all memory of your 
sufferings from your mind! Oh! do not 
look at me thus,” he continued, as the 
tears burst out afresh, “wretched, miser- 
able, blinded creature that I was, to shut 
my eyes to so much love !” 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


Giuditta pressed his hand as warmly as 
her sinking strength permitted. 

“Thanks, my loved Fernand! thanks!” 
she murmured, in a dying tone ; “ to you I 
owe the only moments of happiness I have 
tasted in my short existence, and it is still 
you who bring me consolation in the few 
fleeting minutes that precede my death. If 
any worthy, noble sentiments at any time 
have animated my erring heart, it was you 
who raised and fostered them. Without 
you I should have been steeped in degrada- 
tion ; you taught me to love virtue, to be 
compassionate to others, and now I have a 
last request to make. Take care, I implore 
you,” she continued, gasping for breath, “ of 
this poor boy, who speedily will be without 
a friend in all this dreary world. Farewell, 
Fernand, we shall meet again in Heaven. I 
have again seen you, and I die in peace.” 

The priest approached the humble bed, at 
the foot of which Fernand still remained 
upon his knees, and extended the great sym- 
bol of the Christian faith, the Cross, before 
Giuditta’s rapidly closing eyes. She saw the 
action, held the sacred emblem to her pale 
lips, whilst an expression of mingled hope 
and contrition passed across her face. A tear 
trickled down the good father’s wrinkled 
cheek as he administered the viaticum to the 
girl ; again she gently kissed the crucifix, 
with a peaceful smile, murmured in tones as 
soft as the soul ; that at that instant was 
exhaling through her lips. 

“ My heart is full of hope, I feel my errors 
are forgiven me ! Now — now, father, I can 
die!” 

Her head dropped gradually back, one 
slight shudder passed across her coun- 
tenance and through her frame, and one 
long, deep drawn sigh proclaimed that the 
soul of Giuditta had sought its everlasting 
rest. 

Fernand slightly raised his head as he 
heard the priest recite the service for the 
dead, and the boy, awakened by D’Arville’^ 
groans, ran to his dead protectress, and 
bathed her cold hands with his tears. On a 
sudden, the noise of footsteps advancing 
rapidly was heard outside, the door was 
violently thrown open, and Lady Melrose 
hurried into the room— pale, trembling, 
agitated, and exclaiming : 

“ Where is she ? Where is my sister ? 
Let me see her ! Be she a beggar I must 
embrace her, for the sake of our unhappy 
mother. But I see nothing,” she continued, 
endeavoring to distinguish objects through 
the obscurity of the deepening shades of 
night. “ What melancholy scene is passing 
here ?” 

The voice of Valerie — that heartless wo- 
man, who had forced Fernand to desert Giu- 
ditta for the mere gratification of her 
vanity! roused the young man abruptly 
from the trance in which he had been 


103 

plunged ; he rose from his knees, and said, 
in a harsh, commanding tone : 

“ Madam, withdraw ! This is no place for 
you.” 

“ M. d’Arville !” she replied, starting back, 
amazed at seeing him in such a situation ; 
“ I came here to discharge a sacred obliga- 
tion, and I will remain. Although I do not 
in any way acknowledge your right of inter- 
fering in my affairs, or of questioning me, I 
will make a sad family secret known to you. 
Only a few days since I learned that my 
poor mother had left another daughter, who 
was said to be in indigence. From the pos- 
itive information I received from Madame 
de Marignan, I had hoped to find that sister 
here and rescue her from misery ; but I see 
I am mistaken, and that being so, sir, I with- 
draw.” 

Fernand d’Arville restrained his boiling 
anger with difiiculty, but he could not help 
exclaiming : 

“Valerie! — in the presence of this holy 
man, and standing beside the senseless body 
of this sweet saint— dead for me, and 
through you, when I would willingly cher- 
ish thoughts of peace and pardon in my 
breast ! — Valerie, I could curse you !” 

“ You do well, cruel, pitiless Fernand, to 
reproach me at this moment, when I am 
overwhelmed with grief. My mother, sir, a 
Duchess de Marignan-Orecy, I am told died 
miserably for want of food ; and perhaps 
even now my sister is imploring charity from 
door to door. Alas ! the name which she 
goes by is unknown to me, and I have no 
clue to guide me on her track. All that I 
have been able to ascertain is, that she did 
live in this house, and that she is in possess- 
ion of a medallion, bearing on one side my 
likeness when I was a child, and on the 
other my initials worked in hair.” 

Fernand moved slowly towards Valerie, 
took her by the arm, and drew her with 
solemnity towards the bed where the inani- 
mate body of Giuditta lay. Stooping down, 
as his tears burst forth again, he gently de- 
tached the ribbon that encircled the girl’s 
neck, and presented it to Lady Melrose, as 
he said : 

“ Heaven has punished you, unhappy wo- 
man ! You sought your sister, and would 
have made her rich and happy, it was thus 
you thought to expiate a life of selfish 
vanity: but Heaven has cast your repent- 
ance down the winds, and now it is too 
late ! Look, madam, at the effects of your 
misdeeds ! Look at your own work I Be- 
hold the fruits of your egotistic machina- 
tions. 

Valerie turned deadly pale, her features 
worked convulsively, her breath came fast 
and thick, she seemed about to drop to the 
floor, and Fernand feared her punishment 
was more than she could bear, and that she 
would fall dead upon the body of her sister. 


104 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


By a gigantic effort, however, Lady Melrose 
controlled her emotion, for the sight of Fer- 
nand weeping for any other woman than 
herself renewed her jealousy, and roused all 
the fiendish feelings of her heart. Her sis- 
ter — though dead — was still her rival and 
her enemy. 

“It was a snare!” she uttered fiercely: 
“ a trap to affront and degrade me 1 Ah ! 
Duchess de Marignan, you shall answer me 
for this and all other miseries you have 
forced upon me 1” 

Without even one passing glance at her 
sister’s corpse, Valerie opened the door, 
and dashed into the street ; the priest soon 
left the room, and Fernand remained alone. 

Desolation was in his heart, all the illu- 
sions of his life were cruelly dispelled ; and 
the young man bowed meekly beneath the 
chastisement he had deserved, and prayed. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Foe upwards of a year Doctor Saulnier 
had left Oharrnettes for Saint Germain, 
where he devoted himself to the education 
of his supposed daughter Consuelo, and he 
had chosen that delightful town for his resi- 
dence, because it united all the calm pleas- 
ures of a country life with proximity to 
Paris, and also afforded the advantages of 
the best masters, who attended three times 
a-week to complete the education of the 
child. 

His sister Bettine and himself occupied a 
comfortable small house in the Avenue des 
Loges, outside the gates of the town, and on 
the very outskirts of the forest; for Bettine, 
accustomed from her infancy to the contem- 
plation of nature in its most simple form, 
could not bear being shut up closely be- 
tween brick walls, and, with the intelligent 
Consuelo, she took daily long and delightful 
promenades. 

These walks Bettine never failed, with 
her quiet gaiety and acute observation, to 
make the means of instruction to the child ; 
she found in her a docile, apt, and ready pupil, 
of great susceptibility and power of acquire- 
ment, and in directing the faculties of her 
expanding mind to the beauties of creation, 
spread out as a map before her, she gently 
led her “ through nature up to nature’s 
God.” 

One fine morning in the month of June, 
Bettine and Consuelo strolled together be- 
fore breakfast, into the park of Saint-Ger- 
main ; the air was soft and pure ; the birds, 
perched in the tall trees, or hidden in the 
lowly coverts, awakened the echoes of the 
forest with their lays ; the child, full of the 
gaiety natural to her age, bounded and. gam- 


boled on the sward ; and Bettine Saulnier 
almost forgot her griefs, and dreamed that 
she was happy. 

May not we consider this faculty of 
speedily forgetting sorrow as one of the 
choicest boons Heaven has conferred upon 
mankind! And yet this facility of com- 
pletely throwing off every impression of 
pain, of joy, of sorrow, or of love — as the 
vessel’s keel leaves no traces of her passage 
on the trackless waves — is but a humiliating 
proof of the weakness of our sensations and 
inconstancy of heart. The empty seat by 
the domestic hearth is soon re-occupied ; 
voices but little known repeat those vows 
of love so often murmured in our ears by 
lips now silent in the tomb ; and even with- 
out a thought we may carelessly tread upon 
“ the dark and narrow bed ” of some dear 
friend, and trample under foot those modest 
flowers we should have watered with our 
tears. 

Bettine sat herself down quietly upon a 
mossy bank in one of those long verdant 
vistas, where the boughs of the over-arching 
trees meet and form a bower, protecting the 
pensive wanderer from the sun’s oppressive 
rays; whilst Consuelo coursed and played 
with a beautiful white greyhound that her 
uncle D’Arville had sent to her from Italy. 

The Doctor’s placid sister was no longer 
the buxom maiden that we first saw her at 
Charmettes. Grief and acute suffering had 
“passed by,” sharpening the contour of 
her features, toning down the ruddy hue of 
health that formerly had dwelt upon her 
cheeks, and spreading an expression of ex- 
quisite melancholy on her face. Between 
her appearance as she was then and a few 
months before, there was precisely the same 
difference that exists between a Virgin Mary 
from the glowing brush of Rubens, and a 
Madonna by the immortal Perugino. A 
sentiment of gentleness and peace beamed 
mildly in her countenance as she culled the 
flowers from their beds of green, and ex- 
amined with enthusiasm and minute atten- 
tion the azure leaves of the campanula, and 
the delicate tints of the wild geranium-rose, 
and occasionally glanced at the startled 
fallow deer as they bounded swiftly down 
the glades: The fire of passion and the 
heady tumult of the world seemed dead 
within her and around her ; the silence of 
the wood was only broken by those sylvan 
sounds which are never completely hushed ; 
a flood of thankfulness to the Almighty filled 
her heart and rose responsive to her lips, 
and then her thoughts reached to Fernand, 
and she prayed to Heaven to soften and re- 
prove his heart. 

Bettine had suffered much since the period 
when D’Arville left Charmettes in pursuit 
of his vision of perfection. Her innate 
maiden modesty had given her strength to 
hide the racking torments the desertion of 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


105 


her beloved betrothed had caused her, — tor- 
ments the deeper for suppression, height- 
ened by the necessity of concealing them 
from the eyes of all the world. The death 
of Inez, whom she fondly loved — the 
passionate, mysterious grief of her stern 
brother, who had seemed so cold and care- 
less to his wife in life, and could scarcely 
accord pardon to the memory of the woman 
of his heart, — all these painful events which 
had torn her heart, had increased the piety 
and resignation natural to her character; 
and, in the school of suffering — 

“ Which like a toad, ugly and venomous, 

Bears yet a precious jewel in its head,” 

she had learned to bow with meek sub- 
mission to her fate. 

As there she sat “ chewing the cud of 
sweet and bitter fancy,” her meditations 
were disturbed by the reports of two pis- 
tols, fired in quick succession at no great 
distance from her ; immediately she dis- 
tinguished the confused sounds of moans 
and voices, and soon afterwards the noise 
of a light carriage, evidently driven furious- 
ly down a bye-path, fropi the crashing of 
the branches of the low tVees beneath which 
it passed. 

Bettine was not ignorant that duels were 
sometimes fought at Saint-Germain, as in 
other forests in the vicinity of Paris ; the 
thought came like lightning, that near that 
bank where she reclined so peacefully a 
human being might have just lost his life, 
or be losing it for want of aid. Another 
idea, however, rapidly succeeded to the 
first — alleviation of suffering was her voca- 
tion — she might be of use ; so hastily call- 
ing to Consuelo to leave off playing with 
the dog, she told her to run back and to 
send Doctor Saulnier there, and then she 
hastened towards the spot whence the re- 
ports of the fire-arms proceeded, little think- 
ing of the frightful scene that soon would 
meet her sight. 

In an open clearing she beheld the sense- 
less bleeding body of a young gentleman, 
placed in a sitting posture, with his back 
leaning against a tree. She shook herself 
violently, touched her limbs with her 
fingers, and rubbed her eyes, to assure her- 
self that she was not in a dream — for the 
wounded man was her faithless lover, Fer- 
nand d’ Arville ! 

The fresh grass and the humble flowers 
around him were dyed with his blood, that 
flowed copiously from a bullet-wound in his 
right breast ; his eyes were half-shut, dull, 
and fixed ; his face was pale and languid, 
and his long chestnut locks, impregnated 
with the cold sweat of agony, fell in dank 
masses over his high brow and cheeks ; 
whilst his second, the Count Henri d’Ore- 
mont stood by him in morbid, listless in- 
decision. 


It was a startling, horrid picture for a 
young woman, who the moment previous 
had been wrapped in a sweet reverie ; but 
Bettine was not one of those feeble crea- 
tures who make it a point to faint away 
whenever they can be of use ; she subdued 
the hysterical sob that rose to her throat, 
and threatened to suffocate her ; she dashed 
the tear-drop from her eye, dropped on her 
knees beside the wounded man, tore up her 
cambric handkerchief, and applied herself 
skilfully to stanch the flowing blood, at the 
same time directing M. d’Oremont where 
he would find a neighboring spring; and, 
whilst the Count ran to bring some water 
to bathe the temples of his friend, she 
passed her arm round Fernand’s body and 
supported his drooping head upon her 
breast. 

She sought not to inquire into the rea- 
sons that led to the hostile meeting, nor the 
name of D’Arville’s adversary; the result 
was all she looked at, the motives for the 
duel were indifferent to her. She did not 
even perceive the strange faces of the per- 
sons whom curiosity had attracted to the 
spot, and regarded her with surmises in- 
jurious to her reputation, — she saw only 
her beloved Fernand expiring before her 
eyes. Her tears, which she felt she could 
not restrain, fell like rain on the pale coun- 
tenance of the wounded man, and she 
pressed him eagerly to her heart, as if her 
puny grasp could shield him from the jaws 
of death. 

In that hour of dire anguish it seemed to 
her monstrous, horrible, unnatural, that she 
should be hale and redolent of life whilst 
that of Fernand was oozing away drop by 
drop, and greedily drank up by the thirsty 
earth : she railed inwardly against the in- 
justice of Providence for allowing this 
young man, for whom she had wept and 
prayed so earnestly, wrestled — so to speak — 
against the injunctions to forget him, to be 
cut off in the flower of his youth : were all 
her tears, her prayers, to fall back profitless 
upon her broken heart? 

Her gentle soul, which, at the moment 
that she heard the sounds of strife, had been 
lifted up to Heaven in the plenitude of faith 
and hope, was now hurled back into the 
abyss of dark despair. She had felt, en- 
dured, and pardoned ; she had sacrificed all 
earthly happiness, and resigned herself to 
an eternal separation from Fernand in this 
world. The thought that he lived, and that 
fortune smiled on him, had sustained her 
until then. She could hear his name pro- 
nounced without its raising a blush upon 
her cheek and a flutter in her breast, — nay, 
it sounded on her ear as the soft strain of 
some sweet melody ; she dreamed that the 
future might possibly reserve for her the 
ecstasy of breathing the same air as him, of 
viewing the objects that had met his eyes, 


106 


CLOUDED HAPPIKESS. 


— nay, even that he might sometimes recall 
her memory with regrets. 

And now to think that all these visions 
were dispelled : to think that the cold earth 
should weigh heavily upon that burning 
heart and noble head ; that the mellifluous 
voice should be forever hushed ; and that 
she might wander throughout the entire 
globe without meeting one person who had 
inherited his name. The thought was an- 
guish, — the trial was too great ! The sun 
had not risen radiant and pure to set so 
luridly in blood ! Heaven would not sully 
so bright a day with such a sad catastrophe ! 

Whilst this mournful scene was being 
enacted in the forest, Consuelo had run 
home and delivered Bettine’s message to 
the Doctor, who feeling a presentiment that 
some misfortune had occurred, took his case 
of instruments and some medicaments and 
accessories he thought might be useful, and, 
guided by the child, proceeded to the clear- 
ing in the forest. For one instant his ha- 
bitual presence of mind was disturbed when 
he descried Inez’s brother, pale and appar- 
ently dying, sustained in Bettine’s arms ; 
but the rapid, scrutinising glance he cast 
around him, the cool attitude of the Count 
d’Orernont, and the ill-suppressed sneers of 
the spectators, showed him that his sister’s 
reputation ran some risk of being tarnished. 

“Ketire, sister!” he said abruptly; “this 
is no place for you. I will examine this 
young man’s wound, and all shall be done 
for him that skill can do.” But, as the af- 
flicted woman hesitated to quit her precious 
burthen, he pointed out to her Consuelo — 
frightened and fainting at the sight of blood, 
and ready to drop upon the ground. 

“ Look at the child,” he added ; “ you 
know her impressible nature and how deli- 
cate she is ; if you do not take her hence 
immediately, I will not answer for the con- 
sequences.” 

At this appeal Bettine’s fears took a new 
direction, she removed her arras from Fer- 
nand’s neck, obtained a promise from her 
brother that he would have the wounded 
man conveyed to his own house, and then, 
catching up the child, ran to make all the 
preparations the warmest affection could 
devise. 

In an incredibly short space of time the 
best chamber was arranged, linen and ban- 
dages were brought, the room darkened; 
and then Bettine awaited with the greatest 
agitation the moment when Saulnier ap- 
peared, walking by the side of the litter 
that conveyed D’Arville to the house. 

There we will leave him, in the kindest 
hands, and take a brief review of the cir- 
cumstances that led to this deplorable event. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Aftee the scene which had taken place 
over the dead body of her sister. Lady Mel- 
rose could not possibly remain the dupe of 
the false tenderness of Madame de Marignan; 
she perceived the full extent of the treach- 
ery the dowager had employed in the pre- 
tended information she had furnished to her 
with respect to Theresa and her children, 
and she determined to have an explanation 
with the Duchess. Driven to desperation 
by the keenness of her grief, for the first 
time in her life she overleaped the bounds 
of that respect, within which she had always 
restrained her resentment to her grand- 
mother, but now she gave free vent to the 
contempt with which the old lady had in- 
spired her. 

The proud Duchess, who was of a quick, 
imperious temper, and who for a long time 
had been in the habit of treating her grand- 
child as a puppet, whom she could twist and 
turn according to her will, was furious in 
her replies at the interview which soon took 
place between them. As she possessed in- 
finitely more tact and talent than Lady Mel- 
rose, and as her age protected her on certain 
points where Valerie was most vulnerable, 
she succeeded in prostrating her antagonist ; 
but yet her complete success made her com- 
mit a fault which gave Lady Melrose an idea 
of what she had to expect, for the Duchess 
threatened her with informing the Earl with 
her intrigue with the — rhymer^ Darville ! 

Upon this hint the Countess resolved to 
depart immediately, and being young and 
strong, and acting upon the spur of the mo- 
ment, she ordered post-horses and set out, 
knowing she should reach the Earl long be- 
fore the Duchess possibly could do so, for 
she fully estimated the advantages of re- 
lating the quarrel with her grandmother in 
her own way. Lord Melrose received his 
wife civilly but coldly, and listened to her 
tale with the greatest politeness ; but though 
he thoroughly hated Madame de Marignan, 
he acknowledged the superiority of her 
rancorous mind, and he felt that one all- 
important secret of his life which she pos- 
sessed would furnish her with a ready ven- 
geance if he should draw it down upon him. 
He therefore endeavored to bring about a 
reconciliation, representing to Valerie that 
her grandmother was an oracle in the aris- 
tocratic saloons of the Faubourg Saint Ger- 
main, whose enmity might be highly detri- 
mental to a young woman in high life. 

But Valerie, who felt herself degraded in 
Fernand’s eyes through her venerable rela- 
tion’s artifices, and was mortally offended 
with the pitiless sarcasms with which she 
had been overpowered, remained firm in her 
determination. She knew the nature of 
fashionable Parisian life sufficiently well to 
be aware that a young, pretty, wealthy 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


107 


woman had nothing to fear in a struggle 
against a sexagenarian dowager, sitting in 
the majesty of the ancien regime in a lugu- 
brious saloon, which offered no other amuse- 
nient than continual scandal, and where the 
visitors were presumed to be happy by the 
dim light of one solitary lamp, and to re- 
fresh themselves with a few biscuits and eau 
sucre. 

^ The Earl rented a mansion of the very 
highest class, and Valerie, completely estab- 
lished in the aristocratic circles, by her own 
high birth and the rank and fortune of her 
husband, was in the habit of giving the most 
splendid balls and f4tes in Paris; and, if 
perchance some antiquated dowagers as- 
sembled in solemn conclave in the Rue des 
Varennes, and chorussed the sarcastic 
speeches with which the Duchess crucified 
her grand-daughter, in revenge, a crowd of 
elegant and fashionable men and women 
filled Lady Melrose’s sumptuous saloons. 

Madame de Marignan champed upon the 
bit, and tugged at the chain that bound her, 
like an imprisoned tigress, but yet she would 
not acknowledge that she was defeated ; 
she mentally repeated her old motto — “ he 
laughs well who laughs the last,” for she 
possessed the patience of all vindictive 
spirits, and well knew how to “ bide her 
time her plan of action was definitely laid 
out, and she only waited the arrival of the 
chief party to the vengeful scheme. 

After Giuditta Castelli’s death, Fernand 
d’Arville became disgusted with the world ; 
he threw up his appointment of attache to 
the embassy of Naples, made a lengthened 
tour in the East, and reached Paris at the 
end of the following May, with the intention 
of disposing of a small estate his father had 
left him, and then of proceeding to the 
United States. But fate and the Duchess 
de Marignan, especially the latter — had de- 
cided otherwise — for the excellent old lady 
who was above all prejudices, did not scruple 
at employing any means to attain her ends ; 
consequently, a few days after his return to 
Paris, Fernand received from her a letter, 
which was couched in the following words : 

“ Sir — Although I have not the honor of 
being personally acquainted with you, my 
former connection with your honorable fam- 
ily, in some sort confers upon me the right of 
interesting myself in all that concerns your 
welfare and your honor. Do not therefore, 
sir, take it amiss that I enlighten you with 
respect to a lamentable circumstance deeply 
affecting the latter, although the disclosure 
may conduct you to sudden death. 

“ You cannot be ignorant that after your 
departure for Berlin your family was visited 
with a terrible calamity, that your only sis- 
ter Inez became the victim of a villanous 
seducer, and that the birth of an illegitimate 
child would have covered her with infamy, 
if a man of unbounded generosity had not 


sacrificed himself by marrying her, and thus 
shielded the reputation of the woman he 
adored. These facts ought, I think, to be 
made known to you, and the more so that, 
from the victim having studiously concealed 
the name of her betrayer, he has remained 
for years unpunished, — nay more, he passes 
haughtily through the world, respected and 
admired ; his hand has pressed yours daily, 
you have enjoyed his hospitality, and called 
him — ‘friend !’ 

“ Fernand d’Arville ! Destiny has reserv- 
ed to you, who loved your sister so deeply, 
so sincerely, who venerated her as a saint, 
the task of avenging the irreparable injury 
the villain did to you and her— the duty of 
avenging her long-protracted death, for she 
died through despair brought on by her 
shame and cruel, dastardly abandonment. 

“ But Heaven has not willed it that this 
scoundrel should escape forever, and through 
me — although personally unknown to you — 
it yields him to your just revenge, it de- 
nounces him to well-merited chastisement, 
and shouts in your ear that the gpilty villain 
is your so-called friend — Lord Melrose !” 

This letter was not signed, but was ac- 
companied with a document that proved 
the correctness of the information contained 
in it without the possibility of a doubt — a 
billet written by the unhappy Inez to her 
seducer, which threw additional light upon 
the circumstances that led to her undoing. 

Fernand did not hesitate one moment 
with respect to the line of conduct it was 
his duty to adopt. From the hour he had 
received his dying sister’s farewell letter he 
had sworn to signally punish her murderer, 
if he should ever discover who he was ; 
vengeance was a sacred duty in his eyes, 
and blood alone could efface the stigma that 
had been imprinted on his name. Indeed, 
he rejoiced that the full weight of his ire 
must fall on a man whom he hated cordially 
already ; but, as the encounter would take 
place with a perfect gentleman in the esti- 
mation of the world, he could not descend to 
any vulgar means of annoyance, and the 
hostile meeting was accordingly so arranged 
by the seconds that the true cause of it, it 
was thought, could not possibly transpire. 
It was given out that some hasty words 
spoken by the Earl in a political argument 
had offended Fernand’s national pride, and 
it was further settled that the duel should 
take place in the forest Saint-Germain, and 
that the adversaries should previously draw 
lots for the chance of firing first. 

That privilege chance gave to the Earl, 
who, feeling himself really guilty, and being 
a man of considerable delicacy, refused to 
take advantage of it, and for a short period 
it seemed that his scruples would prevent 
the duel taking place ; but, on the seconds 
interfering, a discussion ensued, in which 
Fernand purposely made use of such oppro- 


108 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


brioiis epithets that the Earl became exas- 
perated, and did not hesitate to fire. 

Although D’Arville was severely wound- 
ed, he had the strength to return his ad- 
versary’s fire, and his ball would have un- 
doubtedly passed through the Englishman’s 
breast if it had not been interrupted by his 
fore-arm, with which he held up the dis- 
charged pistol, covering his body in a line 
from his shoulder to his hip. The Earl’s 
second and his servant then placed him in 
his carriage, the noise of which, as it drove 
off rapidly, was that which Betti ne heard 
immediately before she repaired to the 
mournful scene. 


CHAPTER XL. 

For a considerable period Fernand’s life 
was in the very jaws of death ; the ball had 
passed completely through his lungs, in- 
flicting sucll extensive injury that although 
Doctor Saulnier was a man of the highest 
attainment he would not rely entirely upon 
his own skill, but called in the assistance of 
the first practitioners in Paris, and, thanks 
to their abilities, joined to the kindest un- 
wearying attention, at the end of six weeks 
D’Arville was pronounced out of danger. 

In receiving Fernand in his house Saul- 
nier liad not recognized a brother-in-law, 
nor even a friend, but merely a man dan- 
gerously wounded, whose Tife might be 
risked by his being transported to a further 
distance. He had acted professionally as 
a surgeon, and morally as a good member 
of society, without the least admixture of 
friendship, or the parade of generosity. 
Armand Saulnier’s disposition had not be- 
come altered in the least degree: he was 
still the same quiet, sensible, excellent, good 
man, susceptible of the noblest feelings, in- 
dulging occasionally in the most charitable, 
self-denying acts, hiding his innumerable 
great qualities under a rough exterior, but 
unforgiving, inexorable to the weaknesses 
of mankind. He pondered long and deeply 
before he came to a determination upon 
any subject, but, when he had once decided 
and formed a deliberate judgment, no po wer 
could make him alter his opinion. With 
him it was not the passive serenity of the 
philosopher, whose constancy has never 
been put to a severe proof, but the fixed de- 
termination of the man who had struggled, 
and became victorious in the strife. Ac- 
cording to his social creed all men, even 
those in the humblest classes, had an im- 
perative duty to perform towards their 
brothers ; that duty might sometimes prove 
painful, the bodily man might sometimes 
suffer in its discharge, but he would not ad- 


mit for a moment of any one receding from 
the labors which Providence imposes, nor 
of his sheltering himself, like a coward, un- 
der the frivolous excuse of obstacles that 
could not be overcome, or of temptations 
too powerful for human nature to resist. 
In as much as he esteemed men of activity 
of mind, of depth of thought, of energy and 
perseverance, in so much he despised idle, 
erring, dreamy enthusiasts, men without 
decision, infirm of purpose, weak of mind 
and heart, who throw upon Providence 
all the misfortunes resulting solely from 
these faults. 

In the Doctor’s category Fernand was 
classed decidedly amongst the “ excom- 
municated;” and with good reason, he 
argued, for had not this vain, selfish man, 
merely to gratify his own caprices, cast off 
one of the gentlest, best of women, left his 
dying sister, and subsequently led a life of 
coarse debauchery ? Thanks to his rival in 
Bettine’s affections — young M. Duval — the 
rumors of his gallantries and excesses 
reached the Doctor’s ears ; and thus the 
stern moralist, whose life was nothing but 
the constant discharge of a succession of 
important duties, looked with no indulgent 
eye upon those errors which are sometimes 
styled the “ venial eccentricities of youth.” 

The duel appeared to him the culminating 
point of a life of reckless folly and disorder. 
To be sure it had pleased the Almighty 
Being, through his humble agency, to avert 
a fatal result ; but had the young man fallen, 
the Doctor would have looked upon his 
death as a retributive punishment for his 
faults and crimes. 

During Fernand’s tedious convalescence, 
Bettine was forever in and out of the suf- 
ferer’s room, and tended him with the zeal, 
the skilfulness, and a thousand times the 
love of those pious, self-den3nng women, the 
good Sisters of Charity. The peacefully- 
smiling face that was continually near his 
bed, and consoled him in his greatest pain 
with the kindest words, seemed to his poetic 
fancy to be that of an angel of mercy taking 
pity on his faults, and offering his pres-, 
ent misery as an expiation to the Most 
High. He would take the nauseous potions 
he was compelled to swallow from Bettine’s 
hands alone ; and when the fever that 
preyed upon him would chase away the so- 
much-needed sleep, she would induce it by 
reading monotonously to him, or lull him to 
repose with her murmured strains, like a 
young and much-loved child. When his 
strength returned, and he could raise him- 
self in bed, she would procure him all the 
trifling amusements his weak state would 
permit, or work at her needle silently by his 
side, happy in being near him, and without 
one thought of her future lot. 

So long as Fernand remained ill, Doctor 
Saulnier did not object to his sister watching 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


109 


over and attending the patient with unceas- 
ing vigilance. According to his view the 
admirable girl was simply discharging the 
duties which Christian charity made incum- 
bent on her, and he would have considered 
he was acting wrongly if he thwarted her in 
any way ; moreover, he would have thought 
he was doing her a gross injustice by sup- 
posing she was capable of feeling any senti- 
ments except those of pity for a man who 
had behaved so scandalously to her, and left 
her to revel in the gross orgies of a sensual 
existence. 

One evening Doctor Saulnier quietly an- 
nounced to his sister, without the slightest 
preface, that Fernand’s health was sufficiently 
established for him to leave his house, and 
that he meant to tell him so immediately. 

“You understand, sister,” he observed, 
as he terminated the abrupt communication, 
“that the character this young man has 
gained for himself is so utterly worthless 
that it is impossible he can remain with any 
respectable family. The sooner he leaves 
my house the better I shall be pleased.” 

Bettine did not reply, but two big tears 
rolled slowly down her cheeks. Poor girl ! 
she had accustomed herself so entirely to 
the quiet happiness of being ever near the 
being whom she still loved better than all 
created things. To her young, innocent 
heart it was a joy beyond belief to find her- 
self necessary to the comforts, almost to the 
existence, of the beloved one. Occasionally 
— if the whole truth must be told — she 
thought she had perceived her patient’s eyes 
fixed upon her with a singularly soft express- 
ion; and the last time she had brought 
him the choicest fruit she could find in their 
small orchard, she imagined, as she ofiered 
them to him, that his hand pressed hers, 
whilst their eyes met at the same moment, 
and in his, all languid as they were, Bettine 
perceived something more than simple 
gratitude. 

Gifted as Bettine was with much acute- 
ness of observation, and unerring in her 
judgment, she had observed, in her long and 
frequent interviews with D’Arville, that his 
character had changed considerably for the 
better during his confinement, and no longer 
presented that mixture of weakness, egotism, 
and insensibility to the wishes and comforts 
of others which had characterized him when 
at Oharmettes ; his heart seemed to have 
become purified by the suff'erings he had 
endured, and she felt the hour was drawing 
nigh when she might proudly own that love 
which she had so long and painfully con- 
cealed. It was not a feeling of misplaced 
affection that had prevented her replying to 
her brother’s observation regarding the de- 
sirableness of Fernand’s taking his imme- 
diate departure, but she was silent because 
her virgin modesty shrunk from her avow- 


ing her passion to her brother, and which, 
likewise, the indifference of him she loved 
might render useless ; for, notwithstanding 
the unqualified pleasure Fernand evinced at 
having her continually near him, he had not 
breathed a single word relating to the past, 
and certainly it was not for her to remind 
him of their old engagement. 

A lengthened silence followed the Doc- 
tor’s communication, during which he looked 
anxiously at his sister, — he could not under- 
stand her melancholy absent air ; but this 
passive resistance was not at all calculated 
to make him alter a determination at which 
he had arrived, and he suddenly exclaimed : 

“I have made up my mind; he must 
leave to-morrow !” 

“ Poor fellow !” Bettine murmured, sup- 
pressing a deep sigh, which the Doctor set 
down to pure commiseration. 

“What! do you grieve!” Saulnier said, 
“ when you ought to rejoice ? If we could 
shut up this fiutterer in a cage we should 
hardly please him. Do you not know that 
the gay bird is about to wing his flight to 
the United States ? A poetical dream of a 
grander nature than usual calls him to the 
farther shores of the Atlantic. It is a pity 
too,” he added, after a further silence, 
that Bettine did not seem inclined to inter- 
rupt, “that such talents should be thrown 
away, for assuredly he is not an ordinary 
man!” 

“ Oh ! no, indeed, brother !” Bettine ejac- 
ulated hurriedly, completely thrown off her 
guard by the totally unexpected compliment, 
“ if you could but see the beautiful verses 
he has written to the memory of our dear 
Inez, I am sure they would make you 
weep.” 

“ Do not prate to me of paltry verses,” 
the Doctor answered, cloaking under habit- 
ual abruptness his internal satisfaction at 
the tribute of regard paid by Fernand to the 
memory of her he had loved so fondly ; “ if, 
instead of starting off on a wild-goose chase 
in Italy, he had remained at Oharmettes 
with us, my adored Inez might be living 
yet. But,” he continued, covering his face 
with his hands in uncontrollable emotion, 
“ all the dear martyr’s torments are at an 
end ! Her soul is in heaven, I firmly be- 
lieve !” 

“ My poor brother !” said Bettine, kissing 
his forehead affectionately ; “ I could never 
conceive why you were not happy with that 
angel of piety the Almighty has recalled to 
himself. You frequently exclaimed, imme- 
diately after her death, that you had killed 
her by not forgiving her ; the same words 
always issued from your lips, as if you felt 
some gnawing remorse that would not be 
appeased. Oh ! brother, did you but know 
how sweet, how consoling it is to forgive ! 
Do you not perceive — you, so noble in your 


110 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


nature, so simply good — that the man who 
pardons an erring fellow-creature exalts our 
fallen nature, and brings it nearer to the 
purity of heaven ?” 

“ What mean you, sister?” Saulnier has- 
tily uttered. 

“ That before Fernand — that brother of 
our Inez whom she loved so tenderly — leaves 
us, you would speak some words of forgive- 
ness and good, kind counsel to him ; he has 
not mentioned the subject to me, but I am 
sure he is much grieved at your coldness to 
him. Poor youth ! if he is culpable his 
faults have brought their own punishment 
with them.” 

“ So much the worse for him, Bettine ; 
true domestic happiness was at his hand, 
and he would not grasp it ; he has sacrificed 
some of the best years of his life and the 
noblest impulses of his heart in the reckless 
pursuit of a shadow. I have no pity for 
liim.” 

“You are unjust, Armand!” Bettine re- 
plied ; “ if a man were to throw himself de- 
liberately from a precipice and break some 
of his limbs, would the conviction that he 
intended to commit suicide prevent you 
from devoting your medical skill to his as- 
sistance ? But not another word upon the 
subject. See, he is coming to us ! How 
pale he is, and how weak he still seems ! 
Be charitable, brother, speak kindly to him, 
and our Inez will thank you from the 
skies !” 

The Doctor’s benignant smile darted one 
ray of hope through Bettine’s heart. He 
rose, walked towards Fernand, and cordially 
expressed the satisfaction he felt at seeing 
him convalescent after his protracted suf- 
ferings.” 

Fernand took the Doctor’s proferred hand 
and shook it gratefully, as he said, with a 
glance at Bettine that brought the crimson 
color to her cheek. 

“ I do not know, my dear sir, whether I 
ought or ought not to regret those sufferings 
— the devoted attention and consolations I 
have received were so sweet that I would 
willingly expose myself to another wound 
were I sure they would be repeated.” 

Bettine dropped her eyes before the fire 
that lighted his, and bent over her work to 
hide her pleasing embarrassment. Fernand 
drew a chair immediately opposite to her, 
and contemplated her emotion with the 
liveliest satisfaction. It seemed to him that 
his restless, roving heart had found a home 
at last ; his soul floated — as it were — in an 
atmosphere of peace unknown to him till 
then, and he murmured : 

“ Fool that I was ! I have renounced true 
happiness for a chimera !” 

At that moment the servant brought the 
morning paper to the Doctor, and as he 
opened it his eye fell by chance upon an 


article, purporting to give an account of the 
duel that had taken place between M. F. 

d’A and an English nobleman. After 

several weeks had elapsed the real cause of 
the hostile meeting had transpired, and, 
without openly stating the reasons, the para- 
graph left no doubt of the truth. 

This piece of information effected a sud- 
den change in Saulnier’s plans. He per- 
ceived that Fernand had risked his life to 
avenge his sister’s honor ; the wounded man 
had submitted to all the Doctor’s harsh re- 
marks without replying to them, without a 
murmur ; and he had nobly refrained from 
making the least allusion to the loved de- 
ceased that might renew his brother’s grief. 

The tears rushed to the good man’s eyes, 
he opened his arms, received Fernand in 
them, and strained him long and closely to 
his heart. 

“ You have done well, Fernand,” he said, 
in a voice faltering through emotion ; “ you 
have acted nobly, but more remains yet to 
be done. That villain, although very severely 
wounded, still survives, and his life belongs 
to me ! It is a debt he has owed me for 
many years, and, now, by Heaven! he shall 
pay me with his blood !” 

“ No, brother,” Fernand answered firmly ; 
“ fortunately this newspaper does not give 
the name of the unhappy man : he too has 
suffered for the crime committed in liis 
youth. We have all committed grievous 
faults, and all equally need the mercy of the 
Almighty ; let us not forget the impressive 
words uttered by the Saviour of mankind to 
his disciples : ‘For if ye forgive men their 
trespasses your Heavenly Father will also 
forgive yours.’ ” 

:Je * 5(t * * * 

One month after this reconciliation, Bet- 
tine was seated by Fernand’s side, upon the 
bench shaded by the jessamine and clematis 
in the porch of Doctor Saulnier’s house at 
Les Charmettes, and her head reclined upon 
his shoulder, as the bell of the old village 
church rang for the evening service. She 
lifted up her dove-like eyes to heaven, 
pressed her husband’s hand fondly to her 
heart, and said : 

“ On the evening when you left us, dear- 
est — when Inez and I sat upon this bench at 
the same hour — I said, as the bitter tears 
fell fast: ‘He will return!’ You have re- 
turned, my own beloved, and you will never 
leave us more!” 

“ Oh, no ! angel of consolation !” Fernand 
replied, with a smile of deep affection, that re- 
paid her for her two long, long years of suffer- 
ing ; “ for real happiness is only to be found 
near those we truly love, in the tranquillity 
of a life whose duties are worthily dis- 
charged, with a conscience free from the 
stings of self-reproach, and a heart at peace 
with all the world!” 


CLOUDED HAPPINESS. 


Ill 


Every year, on the anniversary of Giuditti 
Castelli’s death, Fernand and Bettine cause 
masses to he said in the quiet village church 
for the repose of the poor girl’s soul. 

As for the other personages in our tale, 
they all exist, not excepting the Duchess de 
Marignan, who still vents her ill nature, as 
of old, in calumniating her neighbors., 

Lady Melrose — although upwards of forty 
years of age — ^is as great a coquette and al- 
most as pretty as she ever was ; she wears 
ridiculously low dresses, rouges . highly, 
keeps her daughter — now fourteen years old 
— in the nursery, and affects to think that 
she is still a child. 

The Earl is cured completely of his taste 


for gallantry ; he is growing corpulent, has 
turned his attention with success to the 
pleasures of the table, and talks politics 
over his dessert, 

Lucchesini has inherited another fortune, 
and dissipates it like a man who has un- 
limited faith in his lucky stars, and has 
numerous antiquated rich relations. 

Beppo Oastelli has been hanged — a fate 
he richly deserved a thousand times ; and 
the circumstance affords a gratifying theme 
for the Duchess to allude to in her constant 
quarrels with Lady Melrose, of whose rela- 
tionship with the robber she makes no se- 
cret to all who will condescend to listen to 
the sarcasms of her envenomed tongue. 


THE END. 


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